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THE 


OF  AN 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY 


BY 

JULES  BRETON 


TRANSLATED   BY 
MARY    J.    SERRANO 


NEW^YORK 

D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 

1890 


COPYRIGHT,  1890, 
BY  D.   APPLETON  AND   COMPANY. 


MESSRS.  D.  APPLE  TON  AND  COMPANY,  New   York. 

Gentlemen  :  It  is  with  great  pleasure  that  I  authorize 
you  to  publish  the  translation  of  the  Life  of  an  Artist. 
The  importance  of  your  house,  and  the  conscientious  care 
which  it  gives  to  all  its  publications,  are  to  me  a  sure  guar- 
antee of  the  attention  which  this  book  will  receive  from  you. 
This  history  of  my  life  is  at  the  same  time  the  genesis  of 
my  art.  It  offers  also  portraits  of  the  painters  who  were 
my  friends  or  contemporaries,  and  the  history  of  the  move- 
ment of  art  since  1848  of  which  I  have  been  a  part. 

The  great  favor  with  which  this  book  has  been  received 
in  France  will  find,  I  hope,  its  echo  among  American  read- 
ers. I  am  deeply  interested  in  their  opinion,  for  I  am  full 
of  gratitude  for  the  constant  success  with  which  their  noble 
and  puissant  country  has  been  pleased  to  encourage  my  work 
as  a  painter. 

Please   receive,  gentlemen,    the   assurance   of  my  best 

wishes. 

JULES  BRETON. 

CoURRlfeRES,  October  77,  1890. 


93584 


INTRODUCTION. 


WITH  charming  frankness  and  simplicity  Jules  Bre- 
ton  relates  in  this  volume  his  memories  of  boyhood, 
the  aspirations  and  struggles  of  youth,  and  the  associa- 
tions of  those  later  years  when  Delacroix,  Millet,  Corot, 
Rousseau,  Daubigny,  and  others  of  that  memorable 
company  still  lived  to  the  glory  of  the  national  art 
which  Breton  himself  represents  so  worthily.  Of  his 
own  great  successes  he  speaks  with  becoming  modesty, 
but  we  in  America  have  learned  long  since  to  value 
Breton's  best  work  wholly  apart  from  the  unthinking 
admiration  aroused  for  the  artist  whose  *'  Evening  at 
Finistere  "  brought  a  price  at  the  Seney  sale  in  New 
York  which  was  deemed  phenomenal  until,  at  the  Mor- 
gan sale  in  1886,  his  painting  of  "The  First  Commun- 
ion" reached  the  astonishing  price  of  $45,500.  But 
neither  the  contention  of  millionaires  for  Breton's  paint- 
ings nor  their  presence  in  most  of  our  larger  collections 
nor  the  exact  rank  of  his  art  need  concern  the  reader 
of  this  delightfully  intimate  autobiography,  written  not 
from  the  standpoint  of  the  technician  or  craftsman,  but 
from  that  of  a  man  whose  quick  perceptions,  fine  sensi- 
bility, and  command  of  literary  as  well  as  pictorial  ex- 
pression impart  a  rare  value  to  his  story  of  a  life  which 
has  touched  or  included  so  many  of  the  significant 


2  INTRODUCTION. 

political,  artistic,  and  literary  movements  of  this  cent- 
ury in  France.  It  is  always,  however,  as  the  man  or 
the  artist  that  Breton  writes  his  recollections,  and  we 
can  see  that  politics  and  social  problems  have  rarely 
disturbed  a  life  singularly  serene  and  devoted  to  one 
purpose.  The  picture  which  he  presents  is  a  personal 
one,  and  in  harmony  with  the  dedication  of  the  original 
to  "my  daughter  Virginie,  for  whom  alone  the  first 
chapters  were  written  originally."  A  few  Americans 
know  Breton's  poems,  but  in  this  autobiography  we 
may  justly  claim  the  pleasure  of  presenting  the  famous 
painter  to  our  public  as  an  author  whose  hope  that 
Americans  will  find  something  of  interest  in  this  story 
of  his  life  will  not,  we  think,  be  disappointed. 


f»K 

'OF 

OM\VER*»TY 

;    s 

£ 

E       '.FE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 


i. 

THE  Garden  of  Delight,  the  cradle  of  Adam,  we  have 
all  dwelt  in  it. 

Those  sudden  bursts  of  joy  whose  source  is  unknown 
to  us,  mysterious  smiles  that  without  cause  gladden  our 
hearts,  are  but  dim  reminiscences  of  it.  Thus  does  the 
eye  preserve  the  image  of  the  sun  long  after  it  has  ceased 
to  look  at  it. 

We  all  treasure  in  our  memories  the  splendors  of  a 
wondrous  time,  when  the  light  was  clearer,  the  dawn 
rosier,  the  air  more  vibrant,  the  skies  deeper  and  more 
softly  blue,  than  they  are  now. 

Who  does  not  remember  this  earliest  spring-time, 
when  the  tender  buds  mingled  their  wild  fragrance  with 
the  aroma  of  the  earth  ;  when  we  felt  the  soft  clay  of 
the  garden-paths,  still  moist  from  the  winter  snows  and 
only  partially  hardened  by  the  sun,  yield  under  our 
tread  ? 

In  those  days  joyous  bushes  bloomed  with  starlike 
flowers,  rosy  and  white,  and,  forever  in  motion,  buzzed 
with  clouds  of  golden  bees. 

Where  now  are  those  trees  that  lived  and  sang? 
And  how  many  animals  were  there  that  we  no  longer 
meet  with  in  the  gardens  ?  One  of  these  was  that  little 
elephant,  smaller  than  a  mouse,  that  pushed  its  slender 
trunk  through  the  crevices  in  the  wall,  watching  me 


4  THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST. 

from  the  shadows  with  malignant  glance,  and  quickly 
disappearing  at  my  approach.  Birds  of  a  pale-green 
color,  like  that  of  our  grasshoppers,  sang  among  the 
corn. 

I  heard  sounds  around  me  as  of  the  voice  of  one 
talking  alone,  and  I  was  not  afraid.  It  was  the  voice  of 
God. 

And  the  setting  sun  !  How  large  it  seemed  on 
warm,  stormy  evenings  ;  how  gloriously  it  shone  among 
the  golden  clouds  that  took  new  and  strange  forms  at 
every  moment !  I  saw  among  them  the  figures  of  ani- 
mals, of  men,  and  sometimes  of  the  Virgin.  But  my 
mother  never  appeared  to  me,  and  my  eye  sought  for 
her  in  vain  in  those  celestial  processions;  I  missed  her, 
for  I  had  known  her  only  for  a  short  time  on  earth,  and 
I  knew  she  was  there  above. 

The  elderly  cousin  who  came  in  the  summer  to  cut 
the  grass  on  our  lawn — she  had  seen  her  !  This  woman 
and  I  understood  each  other,  she  was  so  old  and  I  so 
little.  She  knew  so  many  things  ;  she  sang  such  beauti- 
ful songs  in  her  drawling  voice  ! 

One  very  stormy  day  she  had  felt  herself  raised  sud- 
denly in  the  air  and  carried  bodily  to  a  distance,  to- 
gether with  her  bundle  of  grass  ;  and  she  had  seen  the 
lightning  pass  close  by  her  under  the  form  of  a  fiery 
cock,  with  swords  instead  of  feathers  in  its  tail. 

I  loved  her  dearly.  She  seemed  venerable  to  me, 
especially  when  her  figure  grew  indistinct  in  the  twilight 
as  she  returned  home  in  the  evening. 

I  loved  her  on  this  account,  and  also  on  account  of 
her  sickle,  which  looked  so  like  the  crescent  moon. 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 


•II. 

THAT  my  mother  was  in  heaven  I  had  no  doubt,  but 
I  never  knew  just  how  she  had  left  us. 

I  preserved  a  recollection  of  her  at  once  vague  and 
intense,  which  at  occasional  delightful  hours  was  always 
present  with  me,  revived  by  certain  colors,  odors,  sounds, 
or  states  of  the  atmosphere. 

Then  I  saw  again  her  languid  beauty,  her  sweet  pale 
face,  her  mouth,  expressing  mingled  melancholy  and 
goodness,  and  her  deep-set  brown  eyes,  circled  with 
dark  shadows,  that  shone  with  so  tender  a  light  under 
their  large  white  lids  ! 

I  fancied  I  could  feel  again  her  passionate  embraces. 
Ah,  I  loved  her  well ! 

She  had  been  ill  a  long,  long  time.  I  recalled  her 
sitting  in  the  corner  of  the  wide  chimney-place  of  our 
little  kitchen,  at  times  with  her  breast  uncovered,  to 
which  horrible  black  reptiles  clung,  and  there  it  was 
that  she  one  day  said  to  me,  "  I  am  going  to  die  !  "  Did 
I  understand  her  ?  Why  did  I  weep  ?  I  recalled  those 
words  and  others,  very  commonplace  ones.  When  the 
period  arrived  at  which  I  was  to  put  off  skirts  and  wear 
for  the  first  time  the  dress  of  a  boy,  she  saw  through  the 
window  the  tailor  coming  toward  the  house,  and  said  to 
me,  "  Jules,  here  is  your  suit !  " 

Since  I  have  grown  up  I  have  often  shed  lender 
tears  thinking  of  my  mother  and  repeating  to  myself 
those  welcome  words,  "  Jules,  here  is  your  suit !  " 

My  mother !  Again  I  see  the  straw  hat  trimmed 
with  wild  flowers,  and  the  red  and  yellow  shawl  you 
wore  in  your  languid  walks  in  the  garden,  where  you 
were  soon  to  bid  farewell  to  the  flowers  you  loved,  and 
that  beheld  you  die  ! 


6  THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

I  must  have  been  bad  indeed  to  have  vexed  you  at 
such  a  time. 

I  had  received  that  morning,  from  my  godfather,  my 
first  sword.  I  fancied  myself  a  rural  guard  !  And  I 
went  to  the  end  of  the  village  in  search  of  some  delin- 
quent. I  arrived  very  opportunely.  A  boy  of  about  my 
own  age  was  crossing  the  nearest  cultivated  field.  I 
called  to  him  to  leave  it,  and,  as  he  refused  to  do  so,  I 
made  use  of  my  weapon.  The  blow  struck  him  full  in 
the  face,  and  the  poor  little  fellow's  nose  began  to  bleed. 
At  the  sight  of  the  blood  I  began  to  realize  the  wicked- 
ness of  my  conduct.  I  returned  home  ashamed  of  it. 
From  the  garden,  where  I  had  taken  refuge,  I  soon 
heard  angry  cries  filling  the  court-yard.  On  my  account 
the  mother  of  the  injured  child  was  abusing  my  poor 
mother. 

Mamma  called  to  me,  and,  as  I  did  not  answer,  she 
hurried  in  search  of  me.  Then,  seeing  myself  on  the 
point  of  being  discovered,  I  slipped  for  safety  into  an 
asparagus-bed  which  had  not  yet  been  cut,  and  which 
was  impenetrable  to  every  one  but  me,  and  there  awaited 
the  cessation  of  the  storm. 

Soon  the  young  invalid  walked  no  longer  in  the 
garden.  She  kept  her  room,  then  her  bed,  and  every 
evening  before  going  to  sleep  my  brother  and  I  went  up- 
stairs to  kiss  her. 

After  kissing  us  tenderly  she  gave  us  bonbons.  And 
one  day,  when  the  bonbons  were  all  exhausted,  mamma 
went  to  Arras  to  buy  some  more.  I  did  not  understand 
then  why  she  remained  there.  I  did  not  understand, 
either,  why  she  took  us,  before  setting  out,  to  the  house 
of  a  relation  who  lived  at  a  distance  from  us  in  the  vil- 
lage, and  why  we  spent  the  whole  day  there  and  received 
more  caresses  than  usual.  But  on  our  return  home  I 
suspected  that  something  strange  had  happened,  for 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST.  7 

going  into  the  empty  room,  I  found  Mile.  Rosalie  there 
crying.  She  could  cry  then,  this  Mile.  Rosalie,  who  was 
so  terrible  when  she  punished  the  children  with  her  long 
switch  at  the  infants'  school  which  we  attended,  and  of 
which  she  was  the  mistress. 


III. 

BUT  let  us  leave  Mile.  Rosalie. 

I  should  like  to  go  still  further  back  into  the  past,  to 
those  first  sensations  which  stand  out  faintly  from  the 
confused  mist  in  which  my  memory,  becoming  fainter 
and  fainter,  finally  loses  itself — the  dawn  of  the  begin- 
ning, the  light  which  dimly  illuminates  nothingness. 
There  I  see  vague  white  shapes  move  about,  and  faces 
bend  over  me,  of  which  all  the  features  are  indistinct, 
except  the  eyes  that  shine  like  stars,  there  I  see  smiles 
and  eddying  whirlpools. 

When  I  begin  to  discern  more  clearly  the  forms  of 
things,  building  was  going  on  at  our  house.  They  were 
adding  a  new  wing  to  the  old  part  of  the  structure.  Im- 
mense walls  rose  into  the  air,  and  on  ladders  which 
seemed  to  reach  into  infinity  men  were  perpetually  going 
up  and  down. 

They  had  dug  a  hole  for  a  pump,  and  the  water  they 
drew  out  of  it  at  first  was  quite  white.  I  thought  it  was 
milk — milk  from  the  earth  !  I  wanted  to  drink  some  of  it. 

On  account  of  my  mother's  delicate  health,  I  had 
been  brought  up  by  a  nurse.  Her  name  was  Henriette. 
I  called  her  Mtmtre.  She  was  a  young  widow,  a 
brunette,  very  active  in  her  movements,  and  she  loved 
me  as  she  did  her  own  children — an  attachment  which 
I  reciprocated  to  the  end. 


8  THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST. 

Poor,  and  extremely  neat,  she  lived  in  a  room  in 
a  cottage  in  the  neighborhood,  which  she  divided  by 
means  of  a  curtain  of  cheap  material,  ornamented  with 
blue  flowers  on  a  white  ground.  A  single  window,  open- 
ing on  to  the  street,  lighted  up  an  oaken  wardrobe, 
kept  scrupulously  clean,  surmounted  by  an  etagire  on 
which  were  a  few  pewter  vessels,  always  bright,  and 
some  rustic  earthenware.  A  high  fireplace  with  white- 
washed, rough-cast  walls,  a  black  hearth  covered  with 
sticky  soot,  and  a  few  straw  chairs  complete  the  picture. 

When  the  curtain  was  raised  a  double  alcove,  so 
dark  that  one  could  scarcely  distinguish  the  two  beds  in 
it,  was  revealed  to  view  by  the  light  of  a  small  window 
set  in  the  wall.  There  it  was  that  Memere  often  put  me 
to  sleep  to  the  droning  sound  of  some  village  lament. 

When  I  was  able  to  walk,  I  still  went  quite  naturally 
to  the  house  of  Memere  to  play  with  her  two  boys,  both 
of  them  a  little  older  than  I.  I  preferred  their  coarse 
food  to  ours,  and  I  always  arrived  at  meal-times.  Hen- 
riette  would  bring  to  the  threshold  of  the  open  door  the 
large  black  pot  filled  with  steaming  potatoes,  their  skins 
bursting  open,  and,  seated  on  the  floor  around  it,  our 
hands  for  forks,  we  all  would  eat  heartily. 

One  day,  coming  in  hastily,  I  struck  my  foot  against 
some  obstacle  which  lay  in  the  way,  and  fell  with  all  my 
force  against  the  edge  of  the  pot,  cutting  myself  severely 
under  the  lower  lip.  Henriette  ran  to  me  on  hearing 
my  cries  and,  frightened  at  the  sight  of  the  blood  gush- 
ing forth,  clasped  me  in  her  arms  and  carried  me  quickly 
to  her  little  garden  that  opened  out  on  the  fields. 

It  was  a  beautiful  sunny  afternoon  in  spring. 

The  pain  grew  less  ;  I  restrained  my  tears  and  stam- 
mered :  "  Memere,  don't  cry  ;  'tis  nothing  !  "  Suddenly 
I  pointed  with  my  finger  to  a  large  yellow  mass  at  the 
end  of  the  garden,  so  bright,  so  extraordinarily  bright, 


THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST.  g 

that  only  to  think  of  it  dazzles  me  with  an  excess  of 
splendor. 

Henriette  understood  what  my  outbursts  of  delight 
and  my  extended  arms  meant,  and  carried  me  toward 
this  marvel,  which  was  nothing  more  than  a  field  of 
colza  in  bloom.  I  have  never  seen  another  like  it,  but 
every  other  colza -field  delights  me  because  of  that 
one. 

My  nurse  plucked  me  a  branch,  and  since  then  colza- 
flowers  always  smell  sweet  to  me. 

It  was  at  about  this  time  that  I  first  knew  what  fear 
was. 

Me"mere  brought  me  home  one  evening  from  a  house 
at  some  distance  from  ours,  where  night  had  overtaken  us. 
The  streets  were  dark,  the  outlines  of  the  roofs  blended 
imperceptibly  into  the  blackness  of  the  sky,  and  everything 
appeared  still  darker  from  the  lines  of  light  that  escaped 
through  the  cracks  of  the  closed  shutters,  fiery  arrows 
that  all  pointed  in  the  darkness  toward  my  eyes  with  a 
persistency  that  had  something  like  sorcery  in  it.  I 
buried  my  head  in  Henriette's  bosom,  and  remained  per- 
fectly still.  I  had  already  been  told  of  the  horrors  of 
hell,  and  the  thought  of  them  redoubled  my  terror. 
Suddenly  at  the  turn  of  a  street  an  extraordinary  noise 
burst  forth,  and  at  the  same  time  I  heard  a  crowd  of 
people,  passing  and  repassing,  close  beside  me.  We  were 
in  the  midst  of  the  tumult — the  harsh  sound  of  rattles,  the 
cracking  of  whips,  the  clashing  of  iron  pots  and  pans. 
Frozen  with  terror  I  clung  closer  and  closer  to  Henriette. 
I  closed  my  eyes  convulsively,  shutting  the  lids  tight, 
and  yet  I  saw — I  saw  a  legion  of  black  devils,  who  pur- 
sued me,  brandishing  long  bars  of  red-hot  iron,  and  ut- 
tering ferocious  chuckles  and  abominable  cries. 

When  we  reached  the  house  I  heard  my  nurse  say, 
u  They  are  blowing  the  horns  for  Zague"e." 


IO  THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 

To  blow  the  horns  for  any  one  means,  with  us  peas- 
ants, to  give  him  a  charivari. 

They  were  blowing  the  horns  then,  for  Zague*e,  an 
old  beggar-woman,  who,  with  her  owl's  head  and  red 
eyes,  looked  more  like  a  sorceress  than  an  ordinary 
human  being. 


IV. 

I  HAVE  since  seen  many  magnificent  gardens,  but 
never  one  that  could  make  me  forget  the  garden  of  my 
father — for  me  the  first  and  only  garden. 

Surrounded  by  walls  covered  with  espaliers,  and 
crowned  by  vines  with  a  verdant  frieze,  it  was  divided 
into  squares  by  wide  sanded  walks,  into  which  paths, 
bordered  with  sorrel,  opened.  At  the  various  points 
where  the  paths  met,  pear-trees  spread  out  their  branches 
in  the  form  of  an  arch. 

A  true  French  garden,  with  its  beds  of  vegetables 
and  its  flower-borders. 

At  the  entrance,  between  two  grass-plots,  a  low  mar- 
ble pillar,  surmounted  by  a  sun-dial,  rose  from  the  midst 
of  a  clump  of  anemones. 

But  the  wonder  of  the  garden  was  the  grotesque 
stone  figures  at  its  four  corners,  that  gleamed  in  the 
sunshine,  perched  on  high  wooden  columns  painted 
green. 

They  represented  the  four  seasons. 

Spring,  Summer,  and  Autumn,  chubby-cheeked  and 
plump,  bore,  one  of  them  her  basket  of  flowers,  another 
her  sheaf,  and  the  third  her  vine-branch,  laden  with 
black  grapes. 

As  for  Winter,  I  do  not  know  why  it  bore  no  resem- 
blance to  the  other  seasons.  It  was  represented  by  the 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST.  n 

naked  figure  of  a  woman,  of  larger  proportions  than  theirs, 
the  head  and  shoulders  only  being  covered  with  a  kind 
of  sackcloth. 

Huddled  up  and  crouching  with  the  cold,  this  figure 
seemed  to  shiver,  in  spite  of  the  brands  that  burned  at 
its  feet. 

This  want  of  harmony  in  the  statues  puzzled  me. 
Doubtless  this  figure  replaced  a  former  Winter,  broken 
by  some  accident,  for  it  was  newer  than  the  others,  and 
its  outlines,  more  delicate  than  theirs,  had  not  yet  quite 
disappeared  under  the  numerous  coats  of  paint  which, 
for  a  long  time  past,  had  renovated  the  figures  each  suc- 
cessive year. 

Such  was  this  garden,  for  me  the  garden  of  Eden  ! 

Here,  among  the  flowers  and  the  insects,  my  first 
sensations,  my  first  reveries,  had  birth. 

Often,  in  the  silent  solitude,  I  would  lie  stretched  on 
my  back  on  the  grass  in  the  sunshine.  Close  to  my  face 
were  the  long  blades  of  grass,  seeming  tall  as  trees,  and  I 
would  let  my  fancy  wander  far  away  with  the  clouds 
floating  past,  while  above  me  the  branches  of  an  immense 
poplar,  which  grew  in  our  neighbor's  garden,  reached, 
quivering  against  the  blue  sky,  into  space. 

At  every  breath  of  wind,  every  branch  set  in  motion 
its  flakes  of  cottony  seeds  that,  becoming  detached,  fell 
softly  at  my  feet ;  and,  through  the  shadowy  depths  of 
the  tree,  occasional  glimpses  of  the  sky  gleamed  like 
blue  stars.  And  the  swallows  darted  past,  flew  round 
and  round,  hovered  above  me  and  then  soared  high  into 
the  air,  diminishing  in  size,  until  they  seemed  no  larger 
than  the  insects  on  the  dandelions  beside  me. 

Clumps  of  various  flowers  surrounded  the  grass-plot. 
Among  the  bees  and  insects  that  gleamed  golden,  pur- 
ple, and  emerald  as  they  flew,  the  day-moth  would  sud- 
denly appear  like  a  flash  of  lightning,  and,  without 


12  THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 

pausing  in  its  flight,  would  dart  from  flower  to  flower, 
hovering  an  instant  above  each  with  almost  invisible 
wings,  and  plunging  into  its  cup  the  slender  proboscis 
that,  lengthening  itself  out,  wound  round  and  round 
like  a  hunter's  horn.  And  what  delicate  music  accom- 
panied these  pure  visions  ! 

Buzzings,  rustlings,  murmurs,  the  sound  of  insects 
brushing  against  the  rose-leaves,  and  of  birds  sharpen- 
ing their  bills. 

Where  find  again  the  ineffable  delights  of  these  twi- 
light hours  when  the  red  flowers  were  already  black,  while 
the  blue  ones  still  shone  brightly  ! 

The  beetles  whizzed  blindly  against  my  face,  the 
night  butterflies  described  indistinctly  in  the  gathering 
darkness  the  abrupt  zigzags  of  their  flight,  and  from  be- 
hind the  trees  the  moon  cast  pale,  trembling  shadows 
on  the  walls.  I  experienced  a  certain  pleasure  in  pene- 
trating into  the  darkest  places  among  the  foliage,  and 
feeling  mysterious  shudders  run  down  my  back  at  see- 
ing some  strange  nocturnal  animal,  shrew-mouse  or  sala- 
mander, moving  on  the  ground. 

The  profound  silence  was  broken  only  by  the  move- 
ment of  some  bird  concealed  among  the  branches,  and 
which  I  had  awakened  ;  or  by  the  strange  sound  borne 
on  the  breeze  from  the  distant  marsh — the  harsh  croak- 
ing of  the  innumerable  frogs  making  there  their  accus- 
tomed tumult,  and  by  the  shrill  and  ceaseless  chirping 
of  countless  grasshoppers.  On  one  of  those  evenings 
when  I  had  been  allowed  to  remain  out  later  than  usual, 
the  idea  occurred  to  me  to  shake  a  rose-bush  at  the  end 
of  one  of  the  walks,  for  the  purpose  of  bringing  down 
some  cockchafers,  I  think  it  was.  But  what  fell  out  of 
the  bush  began  to  hop  about  in  the  flower-border.  Cock- 
chafers do  not  hop,  frogs  do  not  climb  rose-bushes. 
Here  there  was  some  mystery  which  made  me  tremble 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST.  j^ 

at  once  with  joy  and  terror.  Yes,  little  living  things 
were  jumping  and  hopping  about  among  the  flowers. 

I  trembled,  but  I  had  the  courage  to  put  my  hand 
on  one  of  these  strange  little  beings.  O  joy  !  I  felt 
feathers  !  The  rose-bush  sheltered  a  bird's  nest ! 

When  I  look  far  back  into  the  mystery  of  the  past,  I 
find  among  the  flowers  of  the  garden  a  little  girl,  fair 
and  rosy,  with  blue  eyes.  This  was  my  sister  Julie,  who 
had  come  into  the  world  two  years  before  me,  and  who 
was  so  soon  to  leave  it. 

Important  events  make  but  slight  impression  on 
children,  and  I  have  no  recollection  of  her  death,  which, 
they  say,  caused  the  death  of  my  mother,  who  was  in- 
consolable for  her  loss.  But  I  remember  that  one  day 
she  was  swinging  from  a  ladder,  her  feet  brushing  the 
ground,  and  her  charming  head,  from  which  the  hair  fell 
in  a  shower  of  golden  curls,  thrown  back,  while  she 
sang  in  her  sweet  childish  voice  a  couplet  which  I  have 
never  since  heard,  and  of  which  the  two  following  lines 
have  remained  in  my  memory : 

"  Des  souliers  gris 
Pour  aller  au  Paradis — " 

I  find,  too,  among  the  family  relics,  a  curl  of  her 
hair,  which  seems  still  to  keep  a  gleam  of  its  former 
brightness. 


V. 

EVERY  year,  as  soon  as  the  fine  weather  set  in,  the 
painter  Fremy  came,  and  his  arrival  was  a  great  event. 

I  can  see  him  now  with  his  important  air,  his  crook- 
ed nose,  and  his  jacket  of  maroon-colored  cloth,  unpack- 
ing his  painting  implements  and  his  color-pots. 


14  THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

The  first  time  I  saw  this  man,  I  said  to  myself,  "  I 
will  be  a  painter  !  " 

He  would  glance  at  me  severely  whenever  I  touched 
his  pencils  or  his  book  of  gold-leaf. 

He  was  very  grave,  and  scarcely  ever  spoke.  When 
he  felt  in  the  humor,  however,  he  would  talk  to  me 
about  the  various  chateaux  where  he  had  worked. 

He  told  me  wonderful  things  about  them,  but  I 
could  not  then  imagine  anything  finer  than  the  paternal 
house,  especially  after  this  same  Fremy  had  repainted 
the  wide  plastered  fa£ade,  with  its  pediment  ornament- 
ed with  a  lyre  of  a  bright  rose-color,  the  large  door  yel- 
low, and  the  shutters  a  cheerful  green. 

This  most  important  part  of  the  work  being  finished, 
the  painter  would  descend  to  details,  and  now  indeed 
my  joy  burst  forth.  I  watched  him  as  he  took  out  the 
little  pots  that  contained  fine  and  brilliant  colors,  from 
his  tin  box.  The  first  thing  to  be  done  was  to  retouch 
a  painting  of  the  setting  sun  on  the  ceiling  above  the 
staircase,  and  to  renovate  the  marchande  c? amour  above 
the  mirror  on  the  parlor  mantel-piece.  Then  the  turn 
of  the  Chinese  would  come. 

The  court-yard  of  the  house  was  in  the  form  of  a 
square,  and  was  partly  paved,  partly  sodded.  It  was  in- 
closed on  three  sides  by  the  main  portion  of  the  build- 
ing, and  two  side  wings,  composed  of  the  dining-room, 
the  kitchens,  the  bake-house,  and  various  sheds.  This 
yard  was  separated  from  the  back  yard  and  the  garden 
by  a  railing. 

Overlooking  the  back  yard  was  a  square  pigeon- 
house,  resting  on  four  pillars  and  terminating  in  a  chef- 
tfceuvre  of  architecture. 

This  pointed  roof  consisted,  in  the  first  place,  of  a 
sort  of  small,  round  wooden  temple,  supported  on  an 
iron  shaft,  and  surrounded  by  little  columns,  the  bases 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST.  jij 

of  which,  set  in  a  circular  flooring,  remained  in  air.  As 
the  crowning  glory  of  this  diminutive  temple  of  the  sibyl, 
there  hung  over  it  a  sort  of  extinguisher,  ornamented  with 
bells  and  terminating  in  a  ball,  through  which  passed  the 
iron  shaft  on  which  turned  an  enormous  weathercock — 
the  famous  Chinese,  who  sat  in  the  midst  of  the  land- 
scape smoking  his  pipe.  You  may  imagine  the  effect ! 
All  this  took  up  fully  a  third  of  the  pigeon-house,  and 
did  not  frighten  the  pigeons.  I  remember  that  some 
years  later,  on  a  certain  stormy  night,  we  heard  an 
ominous  sound,  and  in  the  morning  the  temple  was 
found  lying  broken  to  pieces  on  the  ground,  and  the 
Chinese,  all  disjointed,  beside  it.  But  we  must  not  an- 
ticipate events. 

Fremy,  assisted  by  a  workman,  set  up  his  ladder  and 
unfastened  and  took  down  the  Chinese,  who,  with  every 
step  which  Fremy  took,  seemed  to  grow  larger,  and  soon 
I  was  able  to  look  at  him  close  by,  and  to  measure  the 
thickness  of  the  flooring  of  the  temple,  which  was 
strengthened  by  iron  plates  fastened  with  large  nails. 

But  if  I  clapped  my  hands  with  delight  when  the 
painter  brightened  the  jacket  of  the  figure  with  a  splen- 
did chrome-yellow,  what  was  my  joy  when  I  saw  him, 
for  the  purpose  of  repainting  its  trousers,  mixing  blue 
with  the  yellow  to  obtain  a  most  beautiful  bright  green  ! 

After  this,  the  "  Four  Seasons  "  were  ranged  around 
the  shed,  leaving  their  vacant  pedestals  and  the  deserted 
garden  behind  them. 

And,  indeed,  they  stood  in  great  need  of  the  paint- 
er's help,  for  they  were  covered  all  over  with  spots 
where  the  old  paint  had  blistered  and  fallen  off  in 
scales.  High  up  on  their  pedestals  this  was  scarcely 
noticeable,  but  close  by  it  was  hideous.  Fremy  scraped 
them  carefully,  gave  them  a  first  coat  of  white  paint, 
and  then,  like  a  veritable  magician,  restored  to  them  the 


l6  THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

appearance  of  youth  and  life,  touching  their  lips  and 
chubby  cheeks  with  carmine,  and  their  fixed  and  squint- 
ing eyes  with  brown,  while  thousands  of  little  insects 
settled  giddily  on  the  fresh  paint,  to  remain  fastened 
there  by  their  wings  till  the  following  spring. 


VI. 

I  MADE  the  acquaintance  of  my  uncle  Boniface, 
whom  at  that  time  I  called  my  Lille  uncle,  about  1830. 
My  mother  had  not  yet  begun  to  keep  her  room,  and 
still  attended  to  the  details  of  housekeeping. 

No  one  around  us  suspected  the  influence  my  uncle 
was  fated  to  have  on  our  destinies.  But  one  might 
fancy  I  had  a  presentiment  of  it,  for,  although  I  was  then 
only  three  years  old,  I  remember  the  minutest  details 
preceding  and  accompanying  his  arrival. 

The  sun  was  shining.  I  was  gay  as  a  lark.  I  had 
promised  to  be  very  good ;  and  I  was  the  more  disposed 
to  be  so,  as  I  expected  some  handsome  present  from  a 
man  coming  from  a  large  city,  and  who  must  be  of  some 
importance,  judging  from  the  assiduous  preparations  I 
observed  going  on. 

Ever  since  morning  the  house  had  worn  an  air  of 
festivity  and  joyous  anticipation,  in  which  the  masters, 
the  servants,  and  even  inanimate  objects  shared — the 
fresh  flowers  on  the  chimney-piece,  the  table  glittering 
with  its  shining  silver,  and  the  antique  bottles  covered 
with  a  bluish  cloud,  iridescent  with  time,  and  of  which 
the  corks  were  beginning  to  crumble  into  dust.  I  remem- 
ber with  what  respect  and  with  how  careful  a  touch  my 
father  set  these  bottles  always  in  the  same  place  on  the 
console  fastened  to  the  parlor  wall. 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST.  j^ 

My  mother  walked  to  and  fro,  and  my  father  stood 
with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  newspaper,  reading  it  half- 
aloud  in  an  indistinct  voice. 

Taking  up  a  sheet  of  paper  I  tried  to  imitate  this 
odd  way*  of  reading,  making  my  parents,  who  saw  in 
this  a  mark  of  a  precocious  intelligence,  laugh,  when 
(my  dear  uncle,  you  were  no  ordinary  man,  since  I  can 
recall  and  recount  with  pleasure  details  so  insignificant 
regarding  you) — when  the  rolling  of  carriage  -  wheels 
was  heard,  first  in  the  street,  and  then  entering  the  court- 
yard. 

We  hurried  out,  uttering  joyful  cries  of  welcome, 
and  for  the  first  time  I  felt  myself  raised  in  the  arms  of 
the  generous  man  to  whom  I  owe  everything.  I  shall 
speak  at  length  of  him  later  on.  All  that  I  could  ob- 
serve on  this  day  was,  that  my  uncle  was  a  man  of  ele- 
gant bearing,  that  he  wore  a  blue  coat  with  gilt  buttons, 
in  the  French  fashion,  light-colored  trousers,  and  a  wide 
white  cravat ;  that  he  held  his  head  erect,  and  that  his 
high  and  wide  forehead  was  surmounted  by  a  superb 
toupet,  trimmed  in  the  form  of  an  arch,  which  must 
have  been  the  object  of  special  care. 

I  was  not  disappointed  in  my  expectations  from  him  : 
he  brought  me  a  bright  hunting-horn.  I  loved  him  at 
once. 


VII. 

BESIDES  the  persons  already  mentioned,  there  were 
in  the  house  my  maternal  grandmother,  Scholastique 
Fumery,  who  had  long  been  a  widow,  my  grandfather, 
Dr.  Platel,  having  died  many  years  before  ;  Joseph  Car- 
pentier,  an  old  soldier  of  the  empire,  and  his  wife,  Phil- 
lipine.  If  we  add  to  these  the  persons  hired  by  the  day 

2 


1 8  THE  LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

— the  gardener,  Buisine,  nicknamed  Frise,  often  accom- 
panied by  his  son;  the  bueresses  (laundresses)  ;  the  car- 
penter who  split  the  firewood,  a  work  that  occupied  a 
long  time  ;  a  joiner,  who  for  months  and  months  ham- 
mered, planed,  and  smoked  innumerable  pipes  in  the 
unfinished  parlor  of  the  new  building ;  and  our  little 
companions  dressed  up  by  their  sisters,  who  came  to 
play  with  us — it  will  be  seen  that  there  was  no  lack  of 
animation  in  our  house. 

My  father,  the  steward  of  the  Duke  de  Duras,  for 
whom  he  superintended  important  estates,  among  others 
the  forest  of  Labroye,  was  compelled  to  be  often  absent 
from  home. 

Besides  this,  the  functions  he  exercised  as  assistant 
of  the  justice  of  the  peace  often  detained  him  at  Carvin, 
and  compelled  him  to  take  a  part  in  many-of  the  affairs 
of  the  canton.  Thus  it  was  that  he  was  seldom  at  home, 
and  when  there  he  was  always  busy,  scarcely  ever  leav- 
ing his  desk,  which  was  always  covered  with  maps  and 
books. 

Before  his  marriage  he  had  been  a  lawyer's  clerk  in 
the  office  of  my  uncle  Platel,  at  Herim-Lietard. 

He  had  been  a  member  of  the  municipal  band  of 
that  city,  which  explains  the  lyre  on  the  fa£ade  of  our 
house. 

I  have  seen  his  abandoned  buccina,  which  for  a  long 
time  was  thrown  from  one  corner  to  another,  and  which 
was  finally  hung  up  in  the  dark  passage  behind  the  stair- 
case. This  snake,  with  its  crocodile's  head,  its  large, 
wide-open  mouth,  and  its  red  eyes,  often  set  me  to  think- 
ing. Its  head  and  neck  still  preserved,  in  the  midst  of 
the  verdigris  that  overlaid  them,  a  few  scales  of  lacquer 
and  gold. 

My  grandmother  never  left  the  house ;  I  may  even 
say  that  she  never  left  the  little  kitchen,  where  she  sat 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST.  ^ 

in  her  chair  beside  the  window  looking  into  the  yar,d. 
This  window  was  to  the  left  of  the  large  chimney-piece, 
in  the  style  of  Louis  XV,  of  finely  carved  marble,  which 
had  belonged  to  a  chateau  that  had  been  pulled  down, 
and  in  which  Fremy  had  been.  She  walked  with  diffi- 
culty on  account  of  her  age,  her  stoutness,  and  the  short- 
ness of  her  feet.  Only  on  fine  summer  afternoons  would 
she  carry  her  chair  to  the  grass-plot  under  the  large 
cherry-tree  in  the  yard.  She  spent  whole  hours  there 
knitting,  paring  vegetables,  or  shelling  peas. 

Emile's  nurse  would  come  with  her  charge  and  sit 
beside  her  in  the  shade,  while  I  played  on  the  grass  with 
my  little  brother  Louis. 


VIII. 

IT  will  be  seen  that  under  these  circumstances  I 
must  have  enjoyed  a  liberty  almost  without  limit,  spoiled 
as  I  was  by  the  servants  and  by  those  of  my  playmates 
who  were  in  an  inferior  position  to  mine  ;  and  that  I 
easily  escaped  from  the  surveillance  of  a  father  who  was 
often  absent,  of  a  mother  who  was  dying,  and  of  a  grand- 
mother who  was  almost  helpless.  I  abused  this  liberty 
by  running  about  the  streets. 

I  brought  home  from  there  bands  of  little  scape- 
graces who  gave  me  lessons  in  boyish  tricks  by  which  I 
profited  only  too  well.  I  went  so  far  one  day  as  to  throw 
stones  at  the  windows  which  opened  into  the  garden, 
breaking  all  the  glass,  only  to  prove  to  the  little  rascals 
who  applauded  me  that  I  was  far  above  considering  the 
expense. 

Yet  there  was  something  good  in  me.  I  felt  my 
heart  filled  with  tenderness  for  my  parents,  and  with 


20  THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 

compassion  for  the  poor  who,  on  Saturdays,  crowded 
our  court-yard. 

I  even  felt  an  inward  satisfaction  in  conquering  the 
disgust  caused  me  by  their  beggars'  rags,  and  above  all 
by  the  sight  of  physical  deformities — a  disgust  which, 
in  certain  cases,  became  horror.  I  felt  myself  at  times 
seized  with  a  trembling  when  I  held  out  the  sou  which 
I  was  charged  by  my  grandmother  to  give  to  certain 
cripples.  I  shuddered  only  to  hear  the  noise  of  their 
crutches  on  the  pavement. 

But  the  idiot,  Benesi,  inspired  me  with  no  repug- 
nance, because  he  was  always  good  and  always  clean, 
with  his  gray  coat  and  his  coarse  shirt,  whose  collar  cut 
his  enormous  ears,  adorned  with  rings.  I  would  scarce- 
ly even  ridicule  his  stammering  when  it  took  him  two 
minutes,  in  speaking  to  my  uncle,  to  say,  "  Monsieur 
Biebieeniface.  '  He  had  a  strange  appearance,  however, 
with  his  large  nose,  wide  mouth,  and  head  the  size  of 
one's  fist,  close-cropped,  and  streaked  with  furrows  like 
a  potato-field. 

What  solicitude,  like  that  of  a  faithful  dog,  he  mani- 
fested for  his  blind  sister,  whose  guide  and  careful  guard 
he  always  was  ! 

Therefore  it  was  that  we  protected  Bene'si,  and  de- 
fended him  against  the  street  boys  who  threw  stones  at 
him  and  made  fun  of  his  insane  but  harmless  fits  of 
anger. 

My  parents,  seeing  that  I  was  beginning  to  grow 
wild,  sought  to  put  me  under  the  care  of  a  good  woman 
of  the  neighborhood,  who  kept  a  school  for  little  children. 
But,  when  we  had  reached  the  house,  I  rushed  toward 
the  door  and  clung  to  it  so  desperately,  uttering  furious 
and  persistent  cries  the  while,  that  they  were  obliged  to 
take  me  home  again.  Some  time  afterward  they  had  re- 
course to  the  terrible  Mile.  Rosalie,  an  old  maid,  a  for- 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST.  21 

mer  servant  of  the  cure*,  who  kept  an  infants'  school.  I 
was  more  docile  in  allowing  myself  to  be  taken  there : 
in  the  first  place,  because  my  brother  Louis,  who  was 
now  old  enough  to  go  to  school,  accompanied  me ;  and, 
in  the  next,  because  the  little  carriage  which  they  had 
ordered  from  the  joiner  of  the  large  parlor,  so  long  ago 
that  they  had  forgotten  all  about  it,  being  at  last  fin- 
ished, after  the  smoking  of  innumerable  pipes,  we  had 
the  glory  of  being  driven  to  school  by  Joseph  in  this 
brilliant  equipage. 

Besides,  the  implacable  switch  of  the  schoolmistress 
soon  reduced  me  to  good  conduct.  I  fancy  I  can  still 
feel  her  blows,  when,  at  the  least  sign  of  rebellion,  she 
would  strike  me  heavily  with  it  over  the  head. 


IX. 

THERE  we  were  in  a  little  room  without  ventilation, 
a  crowd  of  children  huddled  closely  together.  Doubt- 
less our  parents  were  not  long  in  perceiving  the  bad 
effect  of  this  rtfgime,  from  a  hygienic  point  of  view,  for 
they  took  us  away  of  their  own  accord  from  Mile.  Rosa- 
lie's school.  Those  few  months  of  unhealthy  bondage 
made  me  better  appreciate  the  joys  of  liberty. 

We  resumed  once  more  our  life  in  the  open  air  with 
our  little  playmates,  and  that  was  a  happy  time. 

Each  season  brought  its  games  and  its  festivals. 

I  shall  have  occasion  enough  to  speak  of  summer.  I 
wish  now  to  say  a  word  about  our  winter  pleasures,  which 
were  worth  all  the  others  put  together.  Winter  is  not 
always,  as  we  personify  it,  a  melancholy  and  trembling 
old  man,  his  beard  hung  with  icicles  ;  nor  the  freezing, 
half-naked  woman,  her  head  covered  with  sackcloth, 


22  THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

who  shivered,  huddled  up  in  the  garden,  notwithstand- 
ing the  plaster  flames  which  Fremy  had  caused  to  burn 
with  so  beautiful  a  red.  Does  not  Winter  rather  resem- 
ble, at  certain  times,  a  cold  and  beautiful  young  girl, 
clad  in  robes  of  dazzling  whiteness,  whose  blue  eyes 
smile  through  her  veil  of  mist  starred  with  diamonds  ? 

Ah!  what  delight  when  the  first  snow-flakes  eddy 
through  the  air,  like  a  cloud  of  white  butterflies,  and  fall 
with  velvety  softness  upon  the  ground,  which  is  gradually 
covered  with  their  cold  and  immaculate  splendor  ! 

How  our  cries  of  joy  re-echoed  sonorously  in  this 
vibrant  silence  !  What  an  awakening  for  the  morrow  ! 
The  rosy  sunlight  falls  slantingly  on  the  white  roofs. 
The  sky,  of  an  extraordinary  purity,  casts  a  blue  shadow 
on  the  smooth  white  carpet  of  snow  in  the  court-yard. 
Among  the  branches  of  the  cherry-tree,  capricious  rays 
of  light  play  in  rosy  hues  among  the  myriad  sparkles  of 
the  iridescent  hoar-frost. 

My  eyes  open  wide  with  delight.  They  take  in  at  a 
glance  all  this  wonderful  glory.  All  this  white  splendor 
reflects  my  soul,  which  grows  white  also.  I  rise  quickly, 
impatient  to  press  with  my  foot  the  unstained  whiteness 
of  the  walks. 

Like  the  joyous  wren  that  hops,  dazzled,  from  branch 
to  branch,  making  a  fine  rain  of  white  flakes  fall  at 
every  bound,  my  heart  beats  in  a  tumult  of  unalloyed 
ecstasy. 

How  many  surprises !  Everything  looks  different, 
The  Chinese,  whose  hat  is  now  adorned  with  a  garniture 
of  plush,  smokes  snow  as  he  sits,  motionless  and  frozen 
in  his  temple.  The  walls  of  the  pigeon-house,  pink  be- 
fore, look  as  if  they  had  been  painted  a  brownish-red, 
Here  comes  Mylord,  our  spaniel,  bounding  toward  me, 
flecking  the  snow  joyously  with  his  tail.  But  has  ho 
been  rolling  in  the  mud  ?  How  yellow  and  soiled  hi3 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST.  23 

coat,  generally  so  clean  and  white,  looks  now  !  The 
garden  in  its  robe  of  hoar-frost  looks  gayer  than  in  the 
spring-time. 

I  go  into  the  kitchen,  of  which  the  floor,  contrariwise 
to  Mylord,  is  whiter  than  on  other  days.  How  bright  it 
is  !  What  mysterious  embroidery  has  covered  all  the 
window-panes  with  flowers  ? 

I  think  all  the  world  ought  to  rejoice  as  I  do,  and 
I   am   very   much   surprised   to  hear  my  grandmother 
say  : 

II  The  snow  has  come.     The  poor  are  going  to  suffer 
now  ! " 

For  us,  who  thought  only  of  our  sports,  the  snow 
meant  skating  on  the  ponds,  joyous  combats  with  snow- 
balls, and  bombardings  of  the  pigeon-house,  with  occa- 
sional interruptions  caused  by  the  numbness  and  stiff- 
ness of  our  fingers  from  the  cold,  followed  by  sharp 
pain  when  we  warm  them  at  the  fire. 

Soon  the  snow  grows  softer  and  more  yielding,  and 
we  learn  to  roll  it  up  and  heap  it  in  enormous  blocks 
that  become  hard  and  ugly  and  are  pierced  by  little 
holes,  and  which  it  takes  an  eternity  to  melt. 

How  soiled  and  unsightly  the  garden  then  looks, 
with  its  dahlias  and  chrysanthemums,  their  leaves  hang- 
ing sadly  in  blackened,  shriveled  shreds ! 

How  those  plants  must  have  suffered! 


X. 

IN  the  evenings  Joseph  takes  us  into  the  garden, 
which  is  all  bathed  in  mist  and  blue  moonlight.  He 
holds  his  lantern  high  up  toward  the  trees  which  he 
shakes.  At  times,  a  sparrow,  suddenly  awakened,  flies 


24  THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

terrified  against  the  light,  extinguishing  it.  But  Jo- 
seph has  already  shut  the  lantern,  taking  the  bird  cap- 
tive. 

At  other  times  it  would  be  a  hunt  with  pactoires. 
Pactoires  we  called  a  string  attached  to  the  end  of  a 
long  pole  and  stretched  on  hoops  by  means  of  forked 
slicks.  This  was  a  surer  and  more  formal  way  of  trap- 
ping sparrows. 

I  was  indeed  excited  when  we  set  out  at  night,  our 
pactoires  on  our  shoulders.  Nocturnal  things  took  on  a 
fantastic  aspect.  Here  we  were,  five  or  six  little  boys, 
holding  our  breaths,  we  who  were  so  noisy  in  the  day- 
time. Joseph  set  down  his  lantern  on  the  ground  in 
our  midst,  and  our  shadows  prolonged  themselves  in- 
definitely in  the  mist,  like  the  dark  spokes  of  an  im- 
mense wheel.  A  pale  light  trembled  on  the  walls  of  the 
barns  under  the  old  thatched  roofs,  whose  outlines  faded 
imperceptibly  into  the  sky. 

From  time  to  time  Joseph  set  the  pavilion  of  the 
pactoire.  Sparrows  flew  into  it  from  all  directions,  dazed 
by  the  light,  striking  themselves  against  the  hoops  and 
uttering  little  cries  of  terror  accompanied  by  that  noc- 
turnal sound  of  wings,  unheard  in  the  daytime.  The 
captives  struggled  wildly  to  escape. 

We  remained  dumb  with  mingled  fear  and  delight. 

At  times  the  forked  sticks  became  detached  from 
the  hoops,  and  it  was  a  matter  of  some  difficulty  to  set 
the  pactoire  upright  again.  We  went  along  looking  for 
the  thatched  roofs ;  we  crossed  court-yards  where  Jo- 
seph was  acquainted  with  the  dogs.  These  would  first 
bark  at  us  and  would  then  come  toward  us  amicably 
wagging  their  tails.  But  sometimes  we  stumbled  on  a 
dung-hill  which  we  did  not  see  until  it  was  too  late,  and 
into  which  we  plunged  up  to  the  knees.  We  went  on 
to  the  barns,  where  everything  had  a  weird  and  unfamil- 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST.  25 

iar  aspect.     But  the  grinning  plowshares  were  less  ter- 
rible than  the  impenetrable  darkness  of  the  corners. 


XI. 

WHEN  the  weather  was  bad,  when  the  wind  howled 
down  the  chimney,  and  the  furious  and  storm-beaten 
figure  grinned  on  the  pigeon-house,  Louis  Memere  (the 
son  of  Henriette)  would  tell  us  stories. 

He  knew  a  great  many  that  he  had  heard  from  his 
grandfather  and  from  the  brickmakers  who  employed  him 
occasionally  as  a  workman.  These  simple  and  fabulous 
tales  struck  our  dawning  imagination  with  wonder.  Sor- 
cerers, ogres,  and  demons  were  mixed  up  in  them  with 
God  and  the  Virgin. 

According  as  the  rude  plot  of  the  story  unfolded,  I 
seemed  to  see  pass  before  me  living  pictures.  I  saw 
the  peasant  who  boiled  his  soup  by  the  light  of  the  sun, 
by  means  of  a  magic  whistle.  I  saw  Jean  d'Arras,  the 
shoemaker  who  hunted  in  the  forest  with  only  his  tools 
for  weapons. 

What  a  skillful  man  must  Jean  d'Arras  have  been  ! 
With  what  skill  he  could  strike  a  hare  on  the  forehead 
with  a  bit  of  wax !  It  was  not  long  before  this  hare  ran 
against  another,  and  behold  the  two  fastened  together, 
forehead  to  forehead,  and  unable  to  stir  from  the  spot. 
How  adroitly  Jean  d'Arras  escaped  from  the  wild-boar, 
that,  rushing  toward  him  one  day,  missed  him  and 
struck  the  trunk  of  a  tree  instead  with  his  terrible  tusk, 
piercing  it  through  and  through  !  How  quickly  Jean 
turned  round,  took  his  hammer,  riveted  the  tusk,  and 
killed  the  monster  with  a  stroke  of  his  knife  ! 

But  when,  having  lost  himself  far,  far  away  in  the 


26  THE  LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

forest,  urged  by  hunger,  he  entered  a,  solitary  house,  I 
trembled  with  him  at  the  thought  that  this  house  was 
inhabited  by  an  ogre  just  about  to  dine,  and  whose  wife 
was  serving  him  with  soup,  a  meager  repast  for  a  giant. 

And  scenting  in  advance  the  delicious  supper  he 
would  make  of  him  in  the  evening,  what  covetous  looks 
he  would  cast  at  poor  Jean,  paralyzed  with  fear! 

On  the  other  hand,  as  he  was  polite,  he  invited  our 
shoemaker  to  partake  of  his  soup.  But  the  unhappy 
man,  whose  teeth  chattered  with  fear,  could  not  eat 
even  a  spoonful  of  it;  and,  in  order  not  to  disoblige  so 
amiable  a  host,  he  pretended  to  carry  the  spoon  to  his 
mouth,  but  poured  the  contents  of  it  into  the  pocket  of 
his  leathern  apron,  casting  meanwhile  a  glance  of  ter- 
ror toward  the  half-open  door. 

At  last,  the  ogre  having  gone  out  for  an  instant,  Jean 
escaped.  Oh,  terror  !  It  was  not  long  before  he  heard 
behind  him,  close  in  pursuit,  his  ferocious  enemy.  Jean 
was  a  swift  runner,  but  the  confounded  pocket,  heavy 
with  soup,  struck  against  his  stomach  and  retarded  his 
progress.  He  seized  his  knife,  made  a  large  slit  in  the 
pocket,  and  all  the  soup  ran  out.  Then  the  ogre  cried 
out:  "Ah,  you  knave,  I  understand  your  ruse!  The 
soup  I  have  drunk  keeps  me  too  from  running !  "  And 
with  his  long  sword  he  rips  his  belly  open,  and  falls 
dead. 

One  might  fill  a  volume  with  the  tales  that  Louis 
Me'mere  related  to  us.  But  we  must  not  delay.  It  is 
plain  that  winter  was  indeed  a  pleasant  season. 

This  was  the  case  in  those  days  white  with  hoar- 
frost, and  since,  when,  enveloped  in  delightful  mystery, 
the  guardians  of  the  joys  of  childhood  descended  from 
paradise,  through  openings  in  the  blue  sky. 

St.  Catharine  was  the  first  to  come,  bringing  with  her 
heart-shaped  spiced  cakes,  in  the  center  of  which,  above 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST.  27 

her  wheel,  was  her  likeness  in  starch,  surrounded  by 
arabesques  made  of  little  dots  of  colored  sugar. 

Francois  L ,  my  father's  secretary,  generally  met 

her  on  the  eve  of  her  festival,  on  the  road  from  Carvin, 
when  he  was  returning  from  the  office  of  the  justice  of 
the  peace. 

He  announced  her  coming  to  us,  representing  her 
under  the  form  of  a  simple  peasant,  seated  on  an  ass 
between  two  panniers.  Once  he  even  brought  us  bon- 
bons which  he  had  taken  from  her  after  threatening  her 
with  his  pitchfork,  and  tumbling  her  and  her  ass  into  a 
ditch  by  the  wayside. 

And,  little  ingrates  that  we  were,  we  had  not  a  word 
of  blame  for  this  unworthy  proceeding,  or  in  defense  of 
the  poor  saint. 

Afterward  came  St.  Nicholas.  He  descended  through 
the  air  and  entered  by  the  chimney  to  fill  our  shoes  with 
chocolate  May-bugs.  It  was  in  this  way  that  he  escaped 
Fran£ois  L ,  who  was  never  able  to  plunder  him. 

We  regaled  ourselves  on  his  bonbons,  without  showing 
him  for  our  parts,  either,  any  very  great  gratitude. 

But  the  child  Jesus  was  the  object  of  all  our  affec- 
tion. A  little  boy  like  ourselves,  although  the  Son  of 
God  !  What  admiration,  what  respect,  what  emotion  he 
awakened  in  us  ! 

Have  you  ever  observed  that  those  children,  who  are 
the  boldest  in  the  presence  of  grown-up  persons,  be- 
come timid  and  embarrassed  in  a  tete-b-tete  with  other 
children  who  are  strangers  to  them  ?  This  is  what  hap- 
pened to  us  in  the  presence  of  this  mysterious  comrade, 
radiant  with  celestial  glory. 

What  a  fascination  his  image  exercised  over  us !  A 
rosy  child  enveloped  in  white,  fleecy  clouds  and  clad  in 
gauze  sprinkled  with  golden  spangles,  who  smiled  at  us 
with  his  porcelain  eyes  !  In  those  days  they  had  not 


28  THE  LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

yet  introduced  into  our  villages  the  Christmas  trees,  that 
blaze  with  a  thousand  lights ;  and  yet  what  a  delighted 
awakening,  when  we  found  under  our  pillows  those 
cakes  of  a  familiar  shape,  called  coquilles^  and  which  in- 
spired us  with  such  veneration  that  we  hesitated  for  a 
long  time,  between  greediness  and  respect,  before  we 
could  make  up  our  minds  to  bite  them ! 

And  New-Year's-day  !  What  a  festival !  At  mid- 
night we  were  awakened  by  the  rolling  of  drums,  the 
tumult  of  the  big  drum  and  the  shrill  sound  of  clario- 
net and  flute.  The  band  was  serenading  in  their  turns 
the  members  of  the  five  or  six  companies  of  archers. 
They  executed  in  unison  the  same  music  more  than  four 
hundred  times  in  succession — an  air  which  must  have 
come  down  from  the  remotest  antiquity,  so  strange  and 
barbarous  it  was. 

We  could  hear  it  at  our  house,  at  times  faint  as  a 
murmur,  at  times  loud  as  thunder,  according  as  the  mu- 
sicians receded  or  approached,  and  when  it  sounded  be- 
fore the  house  all  the  windows  shook  and  our  beds 
trembled  at  the  boum-boum  of  the  big  drum,  while  the 
shrill  sound  of  the  fife  pierced  our  ears  like  an  auger. 

We  could  not  sleep  all  night ;  but  we  did  not  mind 
this,  in  the  first  place  because  the  music  amused  us,  and 
in  the  next  because  it  foretold  to  us  handsome  Ne\v- 
Year's  gifts,  sous  and  silver  pieces,  which  the  magnifi- 
cent velvet  purses  made  by  our  grandmother  had  been 
waiting  for,  for  some  days  past. 

When  day  dawned  we  jumped  out  of  bed  to  run  and 
kiss  our  parents. 

How  many  people  came  to  the  house  during  the 
day  !  How  radiant  did  every  face  look  !  The  archers 
filed  into  our  court-yard,  their  ensign  floating  in  the 
breeze,  women  following  them — and  then  there  was 
dancing.  The  music  of  the  night  before  began  again 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 


29 


with  daybreak,  and  now  we  could  see  the  musicians. 
One  of  these  especially,  old  Gaspard,  who  played  upon 
the  flute,  delighted  us  with  his  red  face  and  hair,  and 
his  big  blue  eyes.  A  hard  drinker  and  a  large  eater, 
he  was  soon  to  end  his  life  at  table,  at  the  banquet  of 
St.  Sebastian,  without  having  so  much  as  finished  his 
soup.  As  he  remained  there  a  long  time  without  eating, 
his  neighbor  pushed  him  gently,  saying  to  him,  "Why 
don't  you  eat,  Gaspard  ? "  And  the  poor  old  man  fell 
over  dead. 

But  he  did  not  now  foresee  this  misfortune,  and  he 
played  his  flute  with  calm  animation  while  we  all  went 
out  to  visit  our  neighbors  and  friends,  tramping  through 
the  snow,  our  hands  stretched  out  before  us,  holding 
open  our  large  purses. 


XII. 

THE  recollection  of  these  hours  of  childhood  comes 
to  me  like  the  memory  of  some  delightful  dream.  Ah, 
with  what  enchanting  tenderness  those  far-off  days  were 
filled!  What  dazzling  splendor  they  assume,  seen  in 
the  midst  of  the  cruel  disenchantment  of  age  !  What 
aspirations  we  had  toward  heaven  !  And  at  the  same 
time  how  we  felt  ourselves  comrades  of  the  flowers  and 
the  beloved  animals  !  Ah,  the  days  of  our  childhood  ! 

To  be  one's  self  the  dawn  and  to  behold  the  dawn  ! 
Days  of  marvelous  discoveries  !  To  run  about  where 
we  chose,  as  we  chose,  over  roads  which  at  times  termi- 
nated abruptly,  as  if  there  were  nothing  beyond,  as  if 
that  were  the  end  of  the  world. 

To  be  received,  on  our  return  home,  with  fond  ca- 
resses by  our  grandmother. 


30  THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 

And  to  express  all  these  emotions,  so  delightful  be- 
cause they  are  infinite  and  inexpressible,  I  must  make 
use  of  words  which  I  was  then  ignorant  of.  But  if  one 
were  to  express  one's  self  as  a  child  does,  one  would  say 
nothing.  At  that  age  it  is  enough  to  feel.  There  were 
fresh  summer  mornings  in  the  garden,  when  the  roses 
were  wet  with  dew,  and  we  plunged  our  noses  into  their 
hearts  to  breathe  in  the  perfume,  and  at  times  the  little 
insects,  that  made  us  sneeze. 

But  did  it  never  rain  in  those  days  as  it  rains  now  ? 
I  can  scarcely  remember  any  bad  weather.  I  search  my 
memory  in  vain,  I  can  recall  only  sunshine.  I  think 
this  must  be  because  the  Chinese  always  turned  his  pipe 
in  the  direction  whence  fair  weather  came  ;  because 
there  was  a  sort  of  witchcraft  about  this  figure,  so  that 
we  could  always  tell  beforehand  whether  we  would  have 
rain  or  fine  weather  by  the  position  he  condescended  to 
take.  Every  one  consulted  him  ;  even  Joseph,  who  had 
seen  so  many  things  when  he  was  in  Russia  !  When  his 
pipe  was  turned  toward  the  dining-room,  we  could  hear 
the  "  beast,"  pan,  pan,  pan  ! — pan,  pan,  pan  !  This  cry 
would  be  repeated  all  day  at  regular  intervals,  with  ter- 
rible and  persistent  monotony. 

•All  we  knew  was  that  the  "  beast "  was  far  off  in  the 
fields,  and  that  it  was  called  Torgeos. 

But  when  the  Chinese  faced  the  back  yard,  this  noise 
could  not  be  heard,  or  was  so  faint  that  we  had  to  put 
our  ears  to  the  ground  in  order  to  perceive  a  faint  pan, 
pan,  pan ! — pan,  pan,  pan  !  And,  enveloped  as  it  thus 
was  in  mystery,  this  cry  awoke  within  us  a  feeling  that 
was  almost  awe. 

This  strange  beast  must  have  been  gifted  with  a 
mysterious  power,  for  I  heard  Joseph  say  at  times  :  "  We 
can  hear  the  Torgeos  more  plainly  now ;  it  is  going  to 
rain." 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST.  ^j 

But  this  must  have  happened  very  seldom  ;  for,  as  I 
said  before,  I  can  scarcely  recall  any  but  sunny  days 
and  feast-days. 

When  the  first  cherries  began  to  redden  at  the  time 
of  the  peonies  and  new  rushes,  how  gay  the  Sundays 
were,  with  their  snow-white  chapels  at  the  cross-roads 
and  close  by  the  hedges,  all  decked  out  for  the  pro- 


cession 


How  joyous  we  were  !  How  fine  we  were  !  Every- 
body was  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight  over  our  beautiful 
caps  and  our  new  suits  !  And  we  walked  along,  our 
hearts  brimming  over  with  happiness,  holding  ourselves 
erect,  and  clutching  tightly  the  cuffs  of  our  sleeves,  which 
were  too  long. 

The  street  was  full  of  sunshine. 

Pious  women  with  reverent  zeal  fastened  red  and 
blue  ribbons  in  zigzag  fashion,  bunches  of  flowers,  and 
silver  hearts,  to  the  dazzlingly  white  bedclothes  hung 
against  the  walls,  near  these  improvised  chapels. 

Joseph,  assisted  by  the  gardener,  carried  our  fine 
laurel-trees  in  their  green  boxes  to  the  front  of  the  house 
and  set  them  down  before  our  great  door,  covering  the 
earth  in  the  boxes  with  white  napkins,  while  we  sat 
there  in  chairs,  somewhat  ill  at  ease  in  our  Sunday 
clothes,  our  hearts  beating  with  expectancy. 

When  we  grew  tired  waiting,  we  would  go  to  the 
garden  and  put  our  ears  to  the  ground  to  listen  for  the 
sound  of  the  coming  procession. 

The  bells  pealed  with  all  their  might,  and  familiar 
sounds  announced  the  distant  chants.  The  procession 
was  approaching.  Then  we  would  return  to  our  chairs 
near  the  great  door.  Joseph  would  make  haste  to  finish 
strewing  on  the  ground  the  rushes,  the  tall  grass,  and 
the  reeds  that  he  had  cut  that  morning  in  the  marsh, 
mixed  with  flowers  from  the  garden.  The  perfume  of 


32  THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

wild  mint,  peonies,  and  roses  filled  the  air  with  fra- 
grance. 

The  old  men,  sitting  at  the  grating  of  their  yards, 
would  kneel  down  slowly  and  carefully.  On  either  side 
of  the  procession  boys  walked,  carrying  on  their  shoul- 
ders the  supports  for  the  litters  of  the  saints  which  were 
to  be  placed  before  the  temporary  altars,  and  which 
there  had  been  a  struggle  to  get  possession  of  on  account 
of  the  two  sous  paid  for  this  service.  They  ran  at  a 
gallop,  and  deposited  these  supports  before  our  chapel. 

Then  the  saints  themselves  appeared  under  slender 
arches  covered  with  leaves  and  flowers :  St.  Piat,  our 
patron  saint,  clad  in  a  silver  robe  ;  St.  Roch,  showing 
the  wound  in  his  thigh,  his  spaniel  lying  at  his  feet ;  St. 
Sebastian,  scarcely  two  feet  in  height,  but  whose  sides 
were  pierced  by  arrows  of  the  natural  size,  followed  by 
the  brothers  of  the  order,  their  ensign,  on  which  the 
death  of  the  martyred  saint  was  represented  in  silk  em- 
broidery, floating  on  the  breeze  ;  St.  Catharine,  with  her 
wheel,  and  the  Holy  Virgin,  supported  by  young  girls 
dressed  in  white. 

All  these  saints,  strangely  hideous,  painted,  gilded, 
and  silvered  by  our  painter  Fremy,  passed  along  triumph- 
antly, shaking  and  jolting  on  the  iron  pedestals  that 
rose  from  amid  the  peonies  that  covered  the  floors  of 
the  litters,  and  among  which  the  simple  bearers  did  not 
fail  to  deposit  their  rustic  caps. 

The  defaced  and  ugly  figures  of  all  these  saints  in- 
spired me  with  a  vague  fear,  and  I  could  never  bring 
myself  to  laugh  at  them.  At  times  even  the  clouds  of 
incense  and  the  flickering  flame  of  the  tapers  seemed  to 
transfigure  them,  and  they  appeared  to  live  with  a  super- 
natural life,  and  from  their  holy  mouths  mystic  psalms 
seemed  to  proceed,  mingled  with  the  bellowing  of  the 
chanters  and  the  soft  plaints  of  the  ophicleide. 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 


33 


The  cure*  now  mounted  the  steps  of  our  chapel,  and 
while  the  children  of  the  choir  swung  their  censers  and 
rang  their  bells,  and  the  roses  fell  about  in  a  shower,  he 
blessed  the  humble  peasants,  and  the  rustic  procession 
passed  on  again. 

After  the  dais  of  the  cur£  came  the  notables  of  the 
village,  the  municipal  authorities  in  their  midst.  I  knew 
them  well.  Their  faces  were  indeed  the  same,  and  yet 
they  seemed  different,  as  if  surrounded  by  a  mystic 
aureole.  These  men  had  lost  every  trace  of  vulgarity. 

They  seemed  to  move  in  a  divine  atmosphere. 
And  they  walked  gravely,  with  bent  head,  carrying  rev- 
erently their  large  torches,  the  almost  invisible  flames  of 
which  flickered  in  the  air,  and  which  from  time  to  time 
they  held  downward  to  pour  out  the  melted  wax,  that  it 
might  not  drop  on  their  clothes. 

They  walked  on,  soon  to  be  lost  to  view  among  the 
fields  at  the  end  of  the  village,  as  since  then,  alas !  al- 
most all  the  persons  who  composed  that  procession  have 
one  by  one  disappeared  in  the  shadows  of  oblivion. 


XIII. 

OTHERS,  too,  have  passed  into  oblivion — all  those 
friends  of  my  father  who,  at  the  Ducasse,  rilled  our  house, 
and  in  three  days  devoured  the  mountain  of  viands  that 
the  butcher  of  Carvin  had  brought  in  his  wagon  on  the 
eve  of  the  feast. 

I  fancy  I  can  see  now  the  fillets,  the  calves'  livers, 
the  rounds,  the  cutlets,  the  sirloins,  the  sausages,  the 
calves'  heads,  the  legs  of  mutton,  the  sheep's  feet,  the 
hams,  the  smoked  tongues,  and  I  know  not  how  many 
other  things,  as  they  were  unpacked  from  the  wagon. 
3 


34  THE  LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

The  pantry  was  filled  with  them.  I  can  still  perceive 
the  savory  smell  that  came  from  the  kitchen,  and  escaped 
by  puffs  into  the  street,  to  meet  the  guests  whose  hearts 
it  gladdened.  These  arrived  red  and  heated  by  their 
walk,  but  with  sparkling  eyes,  mopping  their  foreheads 
with  their  handkerchiefs  ;  all  eager,  all  happy,  and — all 
present. 

There  were  among  them  some  curious  and  excellent 
types.  The  repast  lasted  all  the  afternoon. 

Ah  !  where  has  all  this  sprightly  gayety  gone  ? 


XIV. 

RED  epaulets — yellow  epaulets — yellow  as  the  coucous 
(primroses)  that  I  gathered  the  other  day  in  the  meadows. 
The  red  I  have  seen  before  (the  firemen  of  Carvin  with 
their  beautiful  tricolored  plumes,  who  were  here  re- 
cently, had  red  epaulets),  but  the  yellow  ?  I  made  this 
remark  to  myself  as  I  stood  watching  countless  soldiers 
defiling  past  our  door.  For  a  long  time  the  red  epaulets 
and  the  yellow  had  been  passing,  passing,  following  one 
another  in  endless  succession,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
epaulets  shaped  like  a  clover-leaf,  and  without  fringe,  of 
the  soldiers  who  carried  the  drums.  Could  it  be  possi- 
ble there  were  so  many  soldiers  in  the  world  !  At  every 
moment  I  thought  the  last  of  them  had  passed,  and  it 
seemed  as  if  the  procession  were  only  just  beginning. 

They  wore  large  gray  cloaks ;  broad  shakos,  on 
which  the  copper  chin-bands  glittered ;  and  sabers  that 
were  very  big,  but  not  much  longer  than  mine.  From 
time  to  time,  at  the  entrance  to  the  village,  clarions 
sounded. 

These  soldiers  appeared  tired.     My  eyes,  too,  were 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST.  35 

tired  from  looking  at  this  continual  movement,  but  I 
could  not  take  them  away,  for  it  was  all  very  beautiful, 
and  very  amusing,  especially  the  yellow  epaulets,  yellow 
as  the  coucous  that  Joseph,  Louis,  and  I  had  gathered 
in  the  Malaquis  meadows,  that  were  all  yellow  and  fra- 
grant with  them.  We  had  brought  home  a  large  basket- 
ful. And  what  happiness  it  was  in  the  evening  after 
we  had  made  them  up  into  fine  bouquets  to  which  long 
strings  were  attached,  to  throw  them  after  the  bats, 
crying : 

"  Katt'  soris 
Rapasse  par  chi 
T'auras  du  pain  musi 
Et  de  1'eau  a  boire 
Katt'  sori  tout  noir ! " 

At  last  the  red  epaulets  and  the  yellow  epaulets  have 
all  passed,  and  the  last  of  them  have  stopped  in  the  vil- 
lage square,  where  something  to  drink  is  distributed 
among  them. 

In  the  evening  I  was  made  very  happy  by  seeing 
some  soldiers  come  to  the  house,  among  them  a  superior 
officer,  who  had  so  much  gold  on  his  uniform  that  I 
took  him  for  a  king. 

A  sight  so  new  to  me  had  confused  my  head,  and  I 
dreamed  of  it  all  night,  and  in  my  dreams  I  saw  again 
our  brilliant  officer.  He  had  on,  like  the  Charles  X  in 
the  picture  in  my  father's  room,  a  large  ermine  mantle, 
and  he  wore  a  golden  crown.  He  was  seated  gravely 
on  Mile.  Rosalie's  red  arm-chair  on  the  great  stand  over 
against  the  gable  end  of  the  town-hall ;  and  beside  him, 
in  place  of  the  scepter,  rose  the  terrible  switch.  He 
was  teaching  the  alphabet  to  the  soldiers  ranged  in  front 
of  him,  and  his  primer  was  nothing  else  than  the  var- 
nished leather  chin-band  of  my  cap  that  I  had  lost  some 
time  ago. 


36  THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

But  the  evening  advanced  and  the  time  for  recrea- 
tion arrived.  The  bats  flew  round  and  round  in  the 
air,  and  the  soldiers  threw  their  yellow  epaulets  at  them, 
crying : 

"  Katt'  soris 
Rapasse  par  chi ! " 


XV. 

ON  the  following  day  the  troops  departed,  and  I 
thought  no  more  of  them  ;  but  for  some  time  afterward  I 
heard  a  phrase  repeated  continually  which  I  had  never 
heard  before,  "The  Citadel  of  Antwerp/'  This  must 
have  had  reference  to  some  great  event,  I  thought. 
Contrary  to  the  habit  of  most  children,  I  scarcely  ever 
asked  questions,  preferring  to  find  out  for  myself  the 
explanation  of  things,  either  through  laziness,  or  in  order 
to  keep  my  judgment  unbiased. 

But  the  great  event  of  the  day  was  when  the  little 
band  that  my  father  was  organizing  came  to  rehearse  at 
our  house.  I  now  discovered  that  the  words  "  Citadel 
of  Antwerp  "  must  be  the  title  of  the  quickstep  played 
by  this  embryo  orchestra. 

This  band  was  to  form  a  part  of  the  company  of  fire- 
men, recently  organized  also  by  my  father,  and  in  which 
he  had  refused  to  accept  any  grade,  in  order  thus  to  ele- 
vate the  position  of  simple  fireman,  and  to  stifle  the 
germs  of  discord  caused  by  disappointed  ambition. 

Every  one's  thoughts,  then,  were  full  of  this  band. 

Some  fifteen  young  men  came  to  our  yard,  at  first 
without  instruments,  to  learn  to  march  (one,  two  ;  one, 
two)  ;  and,  when  they  lost  step,  they  would  take  a  little 
skip  on  one  foot  to  fall  into  it  again. 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST.  37 

This  brought  a  number  of  people  around  our  great 
door  ;  and  the  Lhivers,  our  neighbors,  would  climb  upon 
the  wall  which  separated  our  back  yard  from  their  little 
farm. 

Then,  after  two  or  three  rehearsals  of  this  kind,  the 
bright  copper  instruments  arrived,  unknown,  for  the  most 
part  until  then,  in  our  village. 

My  father  had  chosen  the  piston,  at  that  time  a  nov- 
elty. His  buccina,  however,  that  neglected  hydra,  which 
had  so  long  kept  guard  over  the  staircase,  made  its  reap- 
pearance in  the  light  of  day,  on  the  shoulder  of  a  rustic, 
after  it  had  been  so  effectually  cleaned  that  all  the  lac- 
quer and  gold  had  disappeared  from  it,  leaving  only  a 
little  red  in  the  center  of  the  eyes. 

Then  this  orchestra  came  every  Saturday  evening  to 
rehearse  in  our  large,  unfinished  parlor,  immediately 
under  my  room,  and  I  found  it  delightful  to  go  to  sleep 
to  the  discordant  sounds  of  "The  Citadel  of  Antwerp." 

That  was  a  happy  day  when  we  saw  the  firemen  and 
heard  their  music  at  the  mass  of  the  first  St.  Barbara. 

They  walked  to  the  church  in  military  fashion,  hold- 
ing tightly  their  guns,  that  gleamed  like  silver,  followed 
by  crowds  of  street  boys  and  gaping  girls. 

They  all  wore  military  uniforms — the  coat  with  its 
velvet  plastron  and  gilt  buttons.  But  what  variety  in 
this  unity  ! 

On  one,  the  uniform,  too  tight  across  the  waist, 
opened  out  its  skirts  like  the  petals  of  a  flower  ;  on  an- 
other, too  loose,  its  tails  would  hang  down  like  the  tail  of 
a  frightened  dog.  There  were  also  a  great  variety  of 
shakos.  Some  were  of  oil-cloth,  shaped  like  a  blunder- 
buss, the  crown  bordered  by  a  velvet  band,  with  flames 
and  hatchets  painted  on  it.  Others,  of  felt,  diminished 
in  size  toward  the  crown,  and  bore  symbolic  ornaments 
of  real  copper. 


38  THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST. 

There  was  the  same  difference  in  the  pompons : 
some,  thin  and  scraggy,  hung  down  sadly  ;  others  spread 
themselves  out  proudly,  blooming  like  fresh  peonies. 

And  no  one  dreamed  of  laughing ! 


XVI. 

THIS  morning  I  awoke  earlier  than .  usual.  Why  ? 
And  why  this  gladness  that  fills  my  heart  ?  My  mind, 
still  clouded  by  sleep,  does  not  clearly  perceive  the 
cause,  but  it  is  filled  with  joy  at  the  confused  recollec- 
tion of  some  extraordinarily  happy  event.  I  allow  my- 
self to  be  lulled  by  this  vague  remembrance,  and  pre- 
tend to  be  still  asleep,  in  order  to  prolong  this  state  of 
delicious  torpor.  My  grandmother  has  risen,  and  I  hear 
her  movements  :  the  rustling  of  her  petticoat ;  the  noise 
of  her  steps,  slow  and  a  little  heavy,  as  she  walks  across 
the  floor  which  trembles  at  times  ;  the  splashing  of  the 
water  as  she  pours  it  out  into  her  basin. 

Outside,  the  cocks  are  crowing  everywhere  :  those  in 
our  back  yard  clear  as  a  clarion  ;  ose  of  our  old  cousin 
Catharine,  those  of  the  Lhivers,  and  those  of  Charles 
Ambroise,  our  neighbors,  somewhat  less  clearly,  while 
the  crowing  of  the  cocks  farther  away  I  perceive  only 
by  a  slight  trembling  of  the  air. 

How  pleasant  it  is  to  listen  to  all  this  in  the  soft 
warmth  of  the  bed  ! 

I  half  open  my  eyes  ;  a  ray  of  light  illumines  a  cor- 
ner of  the  ceiling  and  the  top  of  the  wall,  that,  lower 
down,  is  the  color  of  the  sky. 

My  eyes  wander  to  the  picture  hanging  on  the  wall 
near  the  foot  of  the  bed,  a  "  Return  from  the  Chase," 
where  beautiful  women  are  seen  going  to  meet  hand- 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 


39 


some  men  who  carry  guns,  wear  black  gaiters,  and  are 
followed  by  servants  bearing  hares  and  partridges. 

Then  my  grandmother  comes  to  waken  me  with  smil- 
ing caresses. 

Ah  !  now  I  know,  now  I  know  why  my  heart  is  filled 
with  gladness,  why  the  sunlight  dances  on  the  wall. 
The  newly  risen  sun  looks  me  full  in  the  face,  pouring 
in  through  the  window  his  glorious  rays.  I  know  why 
he  raises  himself  above  the  roofs  to  smile  on  me  thus. 
It  is  because  this  day  which  has  just  begun  is  to  be 
marked  by  a  memorable  event — my  first  journey  ! 

Last  night  my  grandmother  said  to  me,  "  To-morrow 
is  St.  Druon's  day,  and  we  must  get  up  early,  because  it  is 
a  long  distance  from  here  to  Epinoy,  where  we  are  go- 
ing." A  league !  Only  think  !  And  I  who  until  now 
have  scarcely  been  outside  of  the  village  !  Therefore  it 
is  that  I  spring  quickly  out  of  bed  and  let  myself  be 
dressed  without  making  mischievous  resistance  ;  without 
thrusting  out  my  feet  when  my  grandmother  hands 
me  my  stockings,  or  burying  my  head  in  her  bosom 
when  she  comes  to  put  on  my  shirt. 

A  journey ! 

At  first  we  passed  familiar  things  :  fragrant  and  daz- 
zling colzas,  on  which  millions  of  little  black  insects  were 
gorging  themselves;  corn  in  the  blade,  from  which 
flocks  cf  larks  soared  up  into  the  air,  hovering  above  us, 
beating  their  wings  and  celebrating  our  departure  by 
ever  sweeter  songs. 

I  saw  the  same  golden  blossoms,  the  same  dande- 
lions, the  same  butterflies,  the  same  brilliant  beetles  that 
waddle  on  the  road  and  exhale  a  disagreeable  odor. 

But  as  we  crossed  the  wooden  bridge  over  the  little 
river,  oh  !  first  surprise  !  A  wonderful  bird  darts  from 
the  bank,  uttering  a  shrill  and  prolonged  cry.  Its 
breast  is  of  fire,  and  its  back  of  a  splendid  green,  more 


4O  THE  LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

brilliant  than  the  stone  of  the  bracelet  that  my  mother 
forgot  to  wear  when — "  A  kingfisher,"  my  grandmother 
tells  me. 

Here  the  unexplored  regions  begin. 

There  is  a  river,  a  real  river,  three  or  four  times  as 
large  as  our  little  river,  with  real  boats  on  it,  that  have 
pretty  little  houses  with  white  windows  and  green  chim- 
neys. The  river  is  like  a  wide  strip  of  sky. 

A  little  farther  on  we  found  ourselves  face  to  face 
with  mountains,  almost  as  high  as  the  walls  of  our  gar- 
den, and  as  my  grandmother  sat  down  here  to  rest,  I 
explored  their  summits,  but  without  finding  there  any- 
thing remarkable.  At  last  I  utter  a  cry.  I  have  discov- 
ered a  new  flower ;  a  little  white  bell-flower,  delicately 
shaped. 

From  this  spot  we  could  descry  the  chapel  of  St. 
Druon  with  its  slender  spire  of  shining  slates. 

"  St.  Druon,"  my  grandmother  tells  me,  "  was  a  sim- 
ple shepherd,  who  lived  at  Epinoy,  and  we  are  going 
presently  to  see  his  well,  all  that  remains  now  of  his 
farm.  He  had  the  gift  of  being  in  several  places  at  the 
same  time  —  in  church,  where  he  prayed,  and  in  the 
fields,  where  he  kept  his  sheep.  He  made  miraculous 
cures,  and  this  is  why  you  see  those  people  going  now 
to  his  shrine." 

In  fact,  at  every  moment  we  met  groups  on  the  road 
who  quickly  overtook  and  passed  us.  We  could  distin- 
guish among  them  the  gray  figure  of  the  idiot  B<£nesi, 
leading  his  blind  sister  as  usual. 

Long  after  they  had  disappeared  we  could  still  hear 
his  psalms,  his  strange  stammering  seeming  augmented 
in  the  echo. 


THE  LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 


XVII. 

ONE  of  the  places  in  the  house  of  which  I  was 
fondest  was  the  loft,  which  was  large,  and  filled  with  a 
crowd  of  curious  objects.  I  spent  long  hours  there 
rummaging  in  the  dusty  corners. 

This  place  seemed  to  me  worthy  of  veneration  be- 
cause of  the  many  old  things,  long  out  of  use,  and 
which  seemed  to  me  dead,  as  it  were,  that  it  contained. 
And  then  the  light  entered  so  solemn,  so  austere, 
through  the  little  dormer-windows.  The  air  was  swal- 
lowed up  in  it  visibly,  like  dust  coming  down  from 
heaven  to  add  to  this  earthly  dust. 

Alone  in  the  somber  silence  I  was  seized  by  a  de- 
lightful sensation  of  fear,  and  I  could  hear  my  heart 
beat,  at  times,  like  a  hammer.  I  heightened  this  feel- 
ing of  secret  dread  by  plunging  my  arm  into  mysterious 
holes. 

At  the  end  of  this  loft  there  were  two  large  worm- 
eaten  boxes,  the  one  full  of  unimportant  scraps  of  paper 
that  my  father  used  for  wiping  his  gun,  and  which  I 
knew  later  to  be  assignats,  that  had  once  represented  a 
small  fortune  ;  the  other  containing  very  interesting 
books. 

While  the  pigeons  outside  hopped  noisily  about  on 
the  tiles  of  the  roof,  I  forgot  to  turn  over  the  leaves  of 
these  large  old  books,  yellow  with  age,  whose  red  edges, 
heavy  bindings,  and  copper  corners  inspired  me  with  so 
much  veneration. 

What  wonderful  pictures  these  red  books  contained  ! 

There  were  lambs,  eagles,  beautiful  climbing  plants, 
and  the  whole  life  of  our  Saviour,  represented  by  great 
crowds  of  very  expressive  figures.  There  were  groups 
of  Jews,  bristling  with  lances,  with  Jesus  in  their  midst, 


42  THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

his  head  sorrowfully  bent — the  innocent  victim  with 
flowing  hair  ;  old  men  with  beards,  wearing  large  tur- 
bans ;  cities,  with  massive  towers  and  thick  walls  ;  terri- 
fied women  and  children  ;  beggars  covered  with  rags 
and  horribly  deformed  ;  and  all  these  moved  about  at 
every  page,  advanced,  withdrew,  or  disappeared  from 
view,  to  reappear  in  other  situations. 

Who  had  painted  these  pictures  ?  This  thought  has 
since  occurred  to  me,  on  seeing  the  pictures  of  Callot. 
They  were  for  me  the  first  manifestation  of  an  art  which 
was  to  be  the  passion  of  my  life. 

They  could  not  at  that  time  serve  any  direct  purpose 
of  instruction,  as  they  were  too  complicated. 

My  first  master  was  a  stranger,  who  had  drawn  a 
portrait  in  crayon  on  the  side  of  a  barn  in  the  village. 
The  picture  was  full  face,  and  in  the  mouth  was  a  pipe, 
whose  reversed  bowl  sent  its  spiral  column  of  smoke 
downward. 

I  copied  the  picture  and  gave  proof  of  originality  by 
correcting  the  position  of  the  pipe. 

At  the  same  time  the  old  papers  in  the  loft  furnished 
me  material  for  cutting  out  a  thousand  arabesques  of 
my  own  invention,  with  a  skill  which  filled  my  grand- 
mother and  the  servants  with  admiration. 

Later  I  covered  the  walls  of  the  large  unfinished 
parlor,  which  the  joiner  had  by  this  time  abandoned, 
with  scrawls  in  charcoal. 

In  addition  to  the  wonderful  pictures  in  the  loft,  I 
saw,  in  the  matter  of  works  of  art,  the  statues  and  sacred 
pictures  in  the  church,  covered  with  ambus  and  shells, 
among  which  a  Picta  set  me  dreaming.  It  was  placed 
very  high  above  the  altar.  One  could  divine  in  it,  with 
sadness,  the  emaciated  features  of  the  Christ,  his  blue 
lips,  and  the  sorrowful  eyes  of  his  mother  ! 

Peddlers  sometimes  passed  through  the  village,  sell- 


THE  LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 


43 


ing  pictures — the  Wandering  Jew,  the  Prodigal  Son,  the 
Holy  Sacraments  —  painted  against  vermilion  back- 
grounds. One  of  these  corrected  my  mistaken  idea  in 
regard  to  "  The  Citadel  of  Antwerp  "  ;  it  represented  the 
siege  of  that  city,  and  there  I  saw  again  the  yellow 
epaulets,  and  in  the  sky  a  rain  of  red  bullets  that  de- 
scribed wide,  madder-colored  curves  as  they  fell. 


XVIII. 

ABOUT  this  time  an  event  occurred  which  excited 
my  curiosity  greatly.  A  wagon  -  load  of  books,  the 
greater  number  of  which  were  richly  bound  and  which 
awakened  my  admiration,  was  unpacked  in  our  court- 
yard. 

These  volumes,  an  entire  library,  had  been  sent  on 
in  advance  by  my  uncle  Boniface,  who  soon  arrived 
himself. 

In  compliance  with  the  last  wishes  of  my  mother,  he 
had  come  to  live  with  us,  with  the  intention  of  remain- 
ing with  us  for  the  rest  of  his  days. 

He  installed  himself  in  our  house  in  the  character  of 
severe  reformer.  Adieu  now  to  all  idling  in  the  streets  ! 
Adieu  to  the  games  of  prison-bars  in  our  court-yard, 
which  fifty  little  scapegraces  often  filled  at  a  time  with 
their  savage  cries. 

He  chased  away  without  pity  all  these  brats,  among 
whom  a  few  big  boys  and  girls  often  slipped  in. 

Louis  Memere,  and  our  neighbors,  the  Lhivers,  how- 
ever, were  excepted  from  these  rigorous  measures. 

Very  soon  we  were  compelled  to  remain  for  whole 
hours  in  my  uncle's  study,  our  heads  bent  over  our 
primers  or  over  the  uninteresting  Lhomond. 


44  THE  LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

This  study  occupied  half  the  width  of  the  house,  on 
the  floor  above  the  great  door. 

It  was  lighted  from  the  north,  the  side  which  faced 
the  court  and  the  garden,  by  a  lozenge-shaped  window 
of  rich  colored  glass,  on  which  was  cut  the  date  "  1830," 
and  from  the  south  by  the  large  window  opening  into  a 
balcony  that  extended  its  arch  under  the  frontal. 

Near  this  window  stood  my  uncle's  bureau,  with  its 
double  row  of  drawers,  on  which  were  placed  two  spheres, 
a  terrestrial  and  a  celestial  sphere,  a  petrified  aquatic 
plant,  and  some  little  shells.  Then  came  a  porcelain 
stove,  and  then  our  bureau  which  was  divided  into  three 
compartments,  and  was  flanked  by  three  tabourets  cov- 
ered with  hair-cloth. 

Near  the  lozenge-shaped  window  stood  a  large  Ear- 
bary  organ  which  formerly  played  the  overture  to 
"  Jeune  Henri,"  and  which  had  lost  almost  all  the 
keys  of  its  upper  register,  so  that  its  bass  accompanied 
only  a  few  scattered  notes  that  sounded  like  a  shrill 
plaint.  ^ 

One  side  of  the  room  was  occupied  by  the  book- 
case, whose  glass  doors,  covered  with  green  silk,  hid  the 
books  within  from  view. 

Add  to  this  my  uncle's  sofa,  two  or  three  chairs,  often 
littered  with  newspapers  and  pamphlets,  a  stuffed  fox,  a 
small  box  containing  a  flageolet  and  a  wooden  bugle,  a 
music-stand  holding  some  pieces  of  music,  a  horn  rest- 
ing on  the  organ,  and,  hung  around  the  walls,  tables  of 
the  principal  mountains  and  rivers,  and  two  colored  en- 
gravings, representing  Vesuvius  and  Etna  in  eruption  ; 
and  when  I  tell  you  that  all  these  articles  of  furniture 
were  made  of  cherry-wood  and  had  been  carefully 
thought  out,  measured,  planed,  put  together,  scraped, 
polished,  and  varnished,  one  by  one,  in  the  odd  mo- 
ments left  him  by  his  pipe,  by  the  joiner  of  the  large 


THE  LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 


45 


parlor,  you  will  be  able  to  form  a  complete  idea  of  this 
study. 


XIX. 

THERE  it  was,  under  the  dreaded  eye  of  the  master, 
that  we  spent  long  hours  working,  and  longer  hours 
dreaming. 

How  often  was  my  wandering  attention  punished  by 
a  sudden  slap  !  For,  if  my  body  submitted  to  the  rule 
of  an  iron  hand,  my  spirit  often  rebelled,  and,  escaping 
from  this  body,  immovable  on  its  hair-cloth  tabouret, 
flew,  now  through  the  beautiful  panes  of  colored  glass 
into  the  garden,  now  into  the  street,  through  the  large 
window  which  my  uncle,  who  loved  the  fresh  air,  almost 
always  left  open  in  summer. 

We  remained  there  for  hours,  that  seemed  each  an 
eternity,  sitting  on  those  hard  seats  that  made  our  bones 
ache,  and  during  those  long  and  enervating  summer 
days  we  heard  all  the  sounds  of  freedom — the  joyous 
bursts  of  laughter  of  our  old  companions,  playing  mar- 
bles or  spinning  tops ;  the  goodies  of  the  village  hum- 
ming can-cans ;  the  wheels  of  the  barrows,  creaking  as 
they  rolled ;  the  vender  of  dishes  and  tttettes  (hardware) 
alternately  crying  his  wares  and  playing  on  a  Pan-pipe, 
and  whom  we  knew  to  be  approaching  or  receding,  as 
the  noise  made  by  his  cart,  as  it  rolled  over  the  hard 
and  uneven  pavements,  grew  louder  or  died  away  ;  and 
the  vender  of  pigs,  who  cracked  his  whip  so  skillfully, 
and  the  gruntings  of  the  little  pigs,  which  grew  hoarse 
at  times  with  their  shrill  squeaking;  and  the  drawling 
sweetness  of  the  songs  of  the  embroiderers,  whom,  in 
imagination,  I  saw  down  at  the  turn  of  the  street,  bend- 
ing over  their  work. 


46  THE  LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

Oh,  how  the  sun  poured  down  his  rays,  lighting  up 
the  pools  and  the  dung-hill  in  the  open  yard  of  old 
Thasie,  that  I  could  see  before  me,  in  front  of  the  bal- 
cony !  How  was  it  possible  to  avoid  being  interested 
in  the  abuse  this  gossip  heaped  upon  her  husband,  the 
deaf  Jeannot,  a  surprisingly  ridiculous-looking  person- 
age with  his  diminutive  figure,  his  shirt  always  unbut- 
toned, leaving  his  red  and  sunburned  chest  exposed  to 
view  ;  his  face  redder  still,  his  bald  forehead,  his  large, 
round  nose,  and  his  wide,  close-shut  mouth,  that  be- 
trayed the  confirmed  drunkard  ?  How  was  it  possible 
to  help  listening  to  this  plague  of  his  life,  who  kept  time 
to  her  words  with  her  flail,  as  she  thrashed  the  corn  ? 
How  was  it  possible  to  help  looking  at  this  fantastic 
peasant  (whose  likeness  Van  Ostade  will  show  me  later 
on),  when,  to  refresh  himself,  he  would  climb  up  into 
his  cherry-tree,  laden  down  with  fruit  that  showed  pur- 
ple against  the  blue  sky?  How  was  it  possible  to  help 
looking  at  the  sunbeams  as  they  played  on  the  floor  and 
the  wall  of  the  study,  in  which  danced  a  cloud  of  motes, 
through  which  the  blue  fly  which  darted  suddenly  into 
the  room  flew,  striking  the  window-panes  and  the  white 
ceiling  frantically  with  his  head  and  back  ?  And,  above 
all,  how  was  it  possible  not  to  writhe  with  impatience 
on  the  hair-cloth  seat  of  my  tabouret  on  the  day  on 
which  I  heard  the  soldiers  marching  into  the  village,  re- 
turning from  the  siege  of  Antwerp  ? 

But  this  time  discipline  was  less  severe,  and,  leaning 
against  the  balcony,  I  could  look  at  my  ease  at  the 
red  epaulets  and  the  yellow  epaulets — passing,  passing, 
passing. 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST.  47 


XX. 

So,  then,  we  have  soldiers  again  in  the  village. 

We  go  to  the  square  where  rations  are  being  distrib- 
uted among  them.  There  are  there  a  number  of  bags 
on  which  Louis  Memere  is  just  sitting  down,  when  the 
bag  becomes  unfastened,  and  rice  runs  out  of  it  all  over 
the  ground.  Seeing  this,  the  poor  boy  gets  up  fright- 
ened, for  a  furious  soldier  aims  a  vigorous  blow  at  him, 
which  he  dodges  adroitly  by  slipping  aside  and  drawing 
in  his  head,  tortoise-fashion.  The  arm  strikes  the  air. 
It  was  very  droll.  But  nothing  amuses  me  to-day.  I 
am  sad.  My  brother  Louis  is  not  with  us,  because  he  is 
sick  at  home.  They  have  brought  his  bed  down  into 
the  little  parlor,  where  godmother  (as  we  call  our  grand- 
mother) sits  constantly  beside  him.  This  morning  she 
was  leaning  over  him,  looking  so  sad. 

He  smiled  at  me,  however.  He  is  a  beautiful  boy, 
and  we  love  each  other  dearly  !  I  can  not  take  a  step 
without  hearing  him  behind  me. 

They  call  him  Mademoiselle  Louise,  because  no  girl 
could  have  more  beautiful  blue  eyes  or  brighter  or  more 
curly  hair  than  he  has.  This  hair  is  the  despair  of  my 
uncle,  who  can  not  succeed  in  brushing  it  straight  over 
his  forehead.  In  vain  he  pulls,  twists,  and  wets  it ;  it  al- 
ways returns  in  the  end  to  its  natural  curl.  Our  neigh- 
bor, Lhiver,  who  is  a  barber  and  hairdresser,  declares  that 
this  can  never  be  done,  because  "there  is  a  nest  in  it" 

Yesterday  the  clarionet-players,  who  lodge  at  our 
cousin  Catharine's,  knowing  there  was  sickness  at  our 
house,  asked  if  it  would  divert  the  invalid  to  hear  some 
music.  They  came  into  our  court-yard,  ranged  them- 
selves in  a  circle,  and  played.  Louis  said  this  amused 
him,  but  I  think  he  did  so  only  through  goodness  of 


48  THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

heart,  and  in  order  to  please  them,  for  he  is  even  more 
good  than  he  is  beautiful. 

This  morning  the  sick  child  is  no  better.  The 
clarionet-players  came  into  the  yard  to  play  again. 
Louis  whispered  to  me  that  it  made  his  head  ache.  I 
went  to  beg  them  not  to  play,  and  they  went  away  quite 
sad.  Every  one  is  sad — and  papa  away ! 

To-day  no  one  works.  Godmother  does  not  laugh, 
she  who  is  always  laughing.  My  uncle  walks  to  and  fro 
in  the  house  and  wanders  about  from  place  to  place — 
from  the  court-yard  to  the  garden.  Seeing  me  grieved, 
he  says  :  "  It  will  be  nothing ;  come,  let  us  walk  to  the 
marsh."  From  the  windows  of  our  school-room  I  have 
often  looked  out  at  the  marsh,  which,  according  to  the 
color  of  the  pane  one  looks  through,  appears  red,  yel- 
low, violet,  green,  or  blue. 


XXI. 

ON  that  day  the  spring  sunshine  looked  pale  and 
sickly.  We  walked  along  the  Souchez,  whose  gray 
waters,  level  with  its  banks,  rolling  slowly  along,  re- 
flected the  grass,  the  dandelions,  the  soft  gray  sky, 
deepening  to  a  pale  blue  toward  the  zenith.  The  first 
swallows  streaked  the  air  with  dark  lines,  passing  so 
close  to  the  surface  of  the  water,  at  times,  as  to  wet  in 
it  the  white  feathers  of  their  breasts. 

We  took  the  green  path  that  runs  through  the  wood. 
Alders,  willows,  and  aspens  grew  there  together  in  con- 
fusion, looking  like  a  violet  haze,  their  budding  leaves 
covering  them  like  a  shower  of  green  dust.  At  inter- 
vals the  trenches  traversing  the  wood  flowed  into  pools 
at  our  feet,  bordered  by  straight  and  motionless  reeds. 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 


49 


Through  their  calm  and  limpid  waters  could  be  seen 
the  mossy  plants  growing  at  the  bottom,  bearing  beauti- 
ful, delicate  white  flowers,  tinged  with  a  rosy  hue,  and 
shaped  like  candelabra. 

At  every  step  we  took,  some  frog,  golden  or  bronze- 
colored,  would  plunge  into  the  morass.  In  the  midst 
of  the  tender  foliage,  green  and  fiery  dragon-flies  brushed 
the  rushes  in  their  rapid  flight ;  and  almost  on  the  surface 
of  the  water  swarmed  a  black  mass,  countless  broods  of 
young  tadpoles,  giddy  with  the  spring  sunshine,  that 
kept  up  an  incessant  motion  with  their  flame-like  tails. 

My  heart  was  heavy. 

I  gathered  handfuls  of  reeds  to  make  gayolles  (little 
cages)  and  branches  of  willow  to  turn  into  whistles,  as 
boys  do,  after  carefully  peeling  off  the  bark,  having  first 
beaten  it  for  a  long  time  with  the  handle  of  the  knife. 

At  the  edges  of  the  trenches  grew  plants  bearing 
tall  purple  tufts  of  bloom. 

My  heart  was  heavy. 

My  uncle  did  not  speak. 

We  entered  the  wood  where  white  and  pale-violet 
anemones  trembled  as  we  passed. 

Here  my  attention  was  attracted  for  the  first  time 
by  those  beautiful,  fragrant  yellow  pompons  that  grow 
in  tufts  on  the  branches  of  a  species  of  willow,  which 
we  call  paquet.  Swarms  of  bees  buzzed  around  them, 
detaching  from  the  flowers,  as  they  rifled  them  of  their 
sweets,  a  fragrant  golden  dust  which  clung  to  their  feet, 
part  of  it  rolling  off  like  a  diminutive  avalanche  of  light. 
I  threw  away  my  reeds  and  whistles,  and  gathered  a 
bunch  of  these  brilliant  yellow  pompons,  that  suddenly 
brought  into  my  sorrowful  heart  a  gleam  of  joy. 

I  gathered   this   bouquet  to   take   it  to  Louis.     It 
seemed  to  me  that  the  pleasure  it  would  give  him  would 
soon  make  him  well  again. 
4 


5O  THE  LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

My  heart  beat  fast  as  we  entered  the  house.  But 
Louis  did  not  seem  to  see  my  flowers,  and  I  knew  then 
that  he  was  very  ill. 

Then  I  crept  away  to  a  corner  of  the  garden,  and 
my  tears  flowed  there  in  silence. 


XXII. 

IN  the  mild  April  days  nothing  is  more  delightful  to 
a  child  than  to  see  the  reawakening  of  plant  life. 

The  gardens  especially  rejoice  the  heart  with  inex- 
pressible gladness.  On  all  sides  the  buds  are  bursting 
their  shining  sheaths,  whence  young  leaves  and  blossoms 
emerge  together,  an  indescribable  faint  red  clothing 
their  budding  mysteries. 

A  thousand  plants  are  rising  through  the  humid  soil, 
happy  to  see  again  the  light  of  day  ;  while  others,  more 
precocious,  unfold  their  blossoms  in  all  the  freshness 
and  splendor  of  a  first  blooming. 

The  peonies  have  not  yet  done  sending  out  their 
wine-colored  shoots,  curved  like  bishops'  crosiers ;  but 
the  violets,  the  tulips,  the  pansies,  the  yellow  narcissus, 
the  imperial  crowns  in  whose  hearts  tears  are  always 
welling,  the  fragrant  pink  and  blue  hyacinths  and  the 
primroses  unfold  their  petals  to  the  first  white  butter- 
flies ;  and  the  sensitive  peach-trees  in  the  shelter  of  the 
brick  wall  open  their  rosy  stars,  continually  surrounded 
by  swarms  of  buzzing  honey-bees. 

But  what  most  delights  my  eyes  to-day  is  the  anem- 
ones that  cluster  around  the  shaft  of  the  sun-dial. 

With  what  a  wonderful  intensity,  with  what  an  ex- 
quisite softness,  gleam  the  purple,  crimson,  vermilion,  or 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST.  ^r 

white  velvet  petals  of  these  flowers,  with  their  hearts  of 
black  satin  ! 

But  always  haughty,  they  are  more  haughty  than 
ever  to-day.  And  why  ? 

Because  my  brother  is  getting  better.  Would  I  have 
left  him  for  the  anemones  if  he  were  not  at  this  moment 
resting  in  a  sweet  sleep  ? 

Yesterday  he  played  on  the  bed  with  a  cross-bow. 
Every  time  he  shot  the  arrow  I  picked  it  up  and  brought 
it  back  to  him. 

This  morning  he  got  out  of  bed  for  a  moment.  He 
tried  to  walk  on  his  thin  legs,  but  they  were  still  too 
weak.  He  has  grown  taller. 

Joy  reigns  in  the  house. 

My  uncle  plays  on  the  horn  up-stairs  and  I  do  not 
study,  for  it  is  a  double  holiday.  It  is  Easter  Sunday  ! 


XXIII. 

JOY  reigns  in  the  house.  The  bell  tinkles.  Joseph 
brings  me  an  enormous  Pdque,  fragrant  and  wet  with 
dew,  gathered  in  the  neighborhood,  for  we  have  none  so 
large  in  our  garden. 

Louis  Memere  and  Francois  Lhiver  came  in  their 
Sunday  clothes,  carrying  puny,  wretched-looking  Pdques 
in  their  hands.  They  will  have  to  hold  them  very  high 
indeed  when  they  stand  on  the  bench,  as  the  cure  passes 
with  his  holy-water  sprinkler.  They  might,  it  is  true, 
dip  them  in  the  holy-water  font  as  they  go  out,  but  this 
is  forbidden. 

The  din-din  gives  the  last  peal. 

We  follow  the  faithful,  who  are  going  to  church  :  the 
men  dressed  in  short  jackets,  the  cases  of  their  pipes 


52  THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 

sticking  out  of  their  pockets  ;  the  women  in  long,  black 
or  lilac  cloaks  with  hoods — those  of  the  richer  ones 
trimmed  with  fur.  The  poor  women  wear  squares  of 
black  stuff  on  their  heads,  that  fall  down  over  their 
backs  in  folds,  with  a  single  little  ornament  embroidered 
on  them  in  colored  silk — a  cross  or  a  holy  sacrament. 

We  met  some  of  our  playmates  proudly  holding 
their  Pdques ;  the  grown-up  persons  content  themselves 
with  a  slender  branch  of  box,  held  between  the  fingers. 

The  church  is  overflowing  with  people,  and  is  filled 
with  the  odor  of  a  thousand  branches. 

The  cure  makes  the  tour  of  the  church  with  his 
holy-water  sprinkler,  and,  as  he  passes,  all  the  Pdques 
rise  up  like  a  thicket  of  box. 

On  the  steps  of  the  communion-bench,  which  runs 
across  the  church,  closing  in  the  choir  and  the  side 
altars  with  its  hedge  of  sculptured  foliage,  a  long  line 
of  pupils,  some  bold  and  mischievous,  some  devout  as 
saints,  press  forward  and  kneel  or  sit  down. 

There  are  among  them  heads  of  a  great  variety  of 
shapes  :  some  broad,  some  pointed,  with  ears  sticking  out 
more  or  less,  and  locks,  for  the  most  part  of  a  reddish- 
blonde,  sometimes  fading  into  a  yellowish-white,  and  so 
bristly  that  they  remind  one  of  the  stubble  in  a  field 
after  harvest-time,  and  so  rebellious  that  not  even  a 
thick  coat  of  lard  will  make  them  lie  straight. 

Occasionally,  a  face  covered  with  freckles,  with 
turned-up  nose,  long,  white  teeth,  and  blue  eyes,  spark- 
ling with  mischief,  will  turn  round.  All  this  little  crowd 
jostle  one  another  with  their  elbows,  move  about  rest- 
lessly and  scratch  themselves. 

The  cure  leaves  the  church,  followed  by  the  choris- 
ters and  the  choir-boys ;  the  door  is  closed  in  his  face, 
and  he  must  knock  three  times  before  it  will  be  opened 
to  him  again.  The  ceremony  amuses  me.  After  the 


THE  LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 


53 


Ita  missa  est,  the  street  boys,  dodging  the  blows  of  the 
master,  throng  to  the  holy-water  font,  in  which  they 
dip  their  Pdques  and  raise  a  storm  that  sets  the  water  in 
motion  and  scatters  it  over  the  flags. 

Three  days  afterward  my  brother  6mile  declares 
that,  as  he  was  with  his  nurse,  he  saw  the  bells  passing 
through  the  sky  on  their  long  journey  from  Rome, 
while  the  creaking  noise  of  the  first  rattles  was  sound- 
ing in  the  village. 


XXIV. 

BUM,  bem,  bourn  !  Bum,  bem,  bourn  !  The  bells  are 
back  again.  Quick !  To  the  garden !  We  arrived 
there  out  of  breath,  crazy  with  childish  delight,  running 
hither  and  thither,  and  so  eager  to  see,  that  we  can  see 
nothing. 

At  last  we  discover  an  egg — two,  three,  four !  How 
beautiful  they  are — red,  violet,  blue,  and  yellow !  They 
gleam  like  flowers  among  the  green  leaves. 

We  keep  running  about  from  flower-bed  to  flower- 
bed, separating  the  leaves  with  our  hands. 

Bum,  bem,  bourn  !  We  find  eggs  among  the  imperial 
crowns,  among  the  lilies,  the  primroses,  the  sorrel,  among 
the  grass  on  the  lawn,  among  the  chervil,  everywhere. 
Some,  with  their  shells  broken,  have  remained  hanging 
on  the  branches  of  the  rose-bushes. 

How  generously  the  bells  have  laid  !  Bum,  bem, 
bourn  ! 


54 


THE  LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 


XXV. 


ON  the  following  day  we  assist  at  the  solemn  cere- 
monies of  Easter. 

The  church  is  resplendent  in  all  its  wealth  of  orna- 
ment. 

The  silver  candlesticks,  freed  from  their  covers,  glit- 
ter on  the  altar,  among  the  paper  hollyhocks. 

All  the .  tapers  are  lighted,  the  largest  of  them  de- 
tached from  the  walls  to  which  they  are  ordinarily  fast- 
ened, revealing  to  me  (what  is  one  to  believe  after  this?) 
their  simulated  flames  of  painted  tin,  inside  of  which 
little  candles  are  set.  Stars  of  light  blaze  over  the  pict- 
ure of  the  principal  altar,  and  set  the  Jewish  soldiers, 
who  are  guarding  the  tomb,  trembling,  with  their  flick- 
ering flames.  Above  this  the  soft  u  Pieta  "  grows  softer 
still,  seen  through  clouds  of  smoke. 

I  am  sitting  on  the  church-warden's  bench,  set  against 
the  great  pillar  near  the  choir. 

The  singing  begins,  slow  and  squeaking  ;  I  listen 
mechanically,  absorbed  in  my  dreams.  My  glances 
wander  over  the  assemblage,  that  I  look  down  upon 
from  my  seat,  higher  by  two  or  three  steps  than  the 
others.  When  they  encounter  a  familiar  face,  my 
thoughts  dwell  upon  it  for  a  moment.  The  first  I  see 
is  that  of  the  terrible  Mademoiselle  Rosalie,  with  her 
hard  glance,  who  pretends  to  be  reading  her  prayer- 
book,  but  who  is,  in  reality,  watching  her  little  flock. 
Oh,  I  am  taking  good  care  to  behave  well !  She  may 
look  at  me  as  often  as  she  will  from  the  corner  of  her 
pitiless  eye — she  will  have  nothing  to  tell  my  uncle. 

Behind  Mademoiselle  Rosalie's  little  flock  is  the 
school  of  the  larger  girls.  My  thoughts  often  wander  in 
that  direction.  I  am  certain  to  see  her  there  in  the  front 


THE  LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 


55 


row  !  Who  ?  Her — the  girl  I  call  in  my  thoughts  my 
little  bueresse  (laundry-maid)  because  she  resembles  one 
of  our  laundresses.  I  love  her,  and  I  do  not  dare  to  ask 
any  one  what  her  name  is.  She  has  rosy  cheeks,  and 
she  prays  like  an  angel. 

Farther  on  the  old  women  mutter  their  oremuses,  and 
under  the  portal,  growing  indistinct  in  the  shadow,  men 
with  a  brick-red  complexion  and  bald,  white  heads, 
shine  like  porcelain  figures.  There  Be"nesi  prays,  mak- 
ing pious  grimaces.  I  allow  myself  to  be  gently  lulled 
by  the  chants,  accompanied  by  the  soft  ophicleide. 
With  the  harsh  falsetto,  the  nasal  base,  and  the  gasping 
cries  of  the  two  singers,  are  mingled  at  times  the  dry 
and  harsh  notes,  always  out  of  tune,  of  the  cure",  whose 
voice  sounds  like  a  trombone.  My  ears  have  grown  ac- 
customed to  this  charivari. 

The  cure,  tall  and  thin,  with  his  prominent  nose  and 
chin,  and  his  curly  black  hair,  has  put  on  his  resplendent 
gold-embroidered  cape. 

Now  and  then  he  turns  round  brusquely,  with  an 
angry  "  Hush  !  "  addressed  to  the  boys  on  the  communion- 
bench. 

The  cure"  !  We  are  all  afraid  of  him.  At  times  his 
face  is  strangely  convulsed.  When  he  reads  the  sermon, 
one  can  hardly  understand  a  word  he  says.  The  other 
day,  however,  he  was  very  amiable.  I  went  to  the  raisin- 
confession.  This  is  what  they  call  the  confession  of  us 
children.  I  had  taken  a  basketful  of  onions  to  the  con- 
fessional for  the  cure,  who,  after  he  had  heard  my  sins, 
gave  me  the  customary  package  of  raisins. 

My  godmother  had  selected  the  finest  onions,  and  he 
had  seemed  pleased  with  them. 

But  they  say  he  is  possessed  by  the  devil  at  times. 
We  had  a  great  fight  a  few  days  ago  in  the  village  on 
this  account.  People  went  about  in  the  street  asking 


56  THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

one  another  if  it  was  true  that  he  was  not  anywhere  to 
be  found.  They  went  to  the  church  to  look  for  him. 
Yes ;  he  was  still  there,  standing  before  the  altar  with 
rigid  form  and  convulsed  face  ;  and  he  held  on  high 
the  consecrated  Host,  which  he  could  not  carry  to  his 
mouth.  This  lasted  three  hours,  the  time  spent  in  go- 
ing to  Carvin  to  look  for  the  dean,  who  came  and  broke 
the  spell.* 

Among  the  three  singers,  two  are  worthy  of  mention, 
and  are  as  different  from  each  other  in  appearance  as 
they  are  in  voice. 

The  one  who  sings  in  falsetto  is  old,  ugly,  and  ca- 
daverous-looking. He  sings  only  on  great  occasions,  for 
he  is  an  important  personage.  He  wears  a  sort  of  wig 
of  couch-grass  ;  his  skin  is  rough,  like  the  bark  of  an  old 
tree,  with  a  few  black  plaster  patches  here  and  there  ; 
his  eyebrows,  resembling  in  form  a  circumflex  accent, 
are  set  high  above  his  eyes,  whose  lids  stand  out  against 
the  darkness  of  their  sockets.  The  turned-up  nose  is 
also  set  high  above  the  mouth,  which  is  almost  lipless ; 
add  to  these  a  long  chin  ;  a  white  necktie  ;  gold  eye- 
glasses and  ear-rings  ;  a  large  collar;  a  yellow  waistcoat 
with  brown  stripes,  and  a  long  gray  coat  with  little  but- 
tons. 

It  makes  me  tremble  to  see  how  purple  he  grows 
when,  between  two  fits  of  coughing,  he  throws  back  his 
head  proudly  and  holds  in  his  breath,  to  execute  a  trill 
in  his  harsh  and  childish  voice. 

The  other,  the  one  whose  nose  sings  the  base,  is  the 
usual  singer. 

Later,  when  my  uncle  bought  an  illustrated  copy  of 
Beranger,  we  were  to  be  surprised  by  finding  there  his 


*  This  overscrupulous  priest,  calmed  by  age,  died  a  few  years  ago, 
having  grown  very  tolerant  and  being  greatly  beloved  by  his  people. 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 


57 


exact  portrait.  By  a  stroke  of  genius  Grandville  had 
divined  him.  This  does  honor  to  them  both. 

He  had  a  square  face,  widening  at  the  base,  a  very 
low  forehead,  thick  wavy  hair,  straight  eyebrows,  almost 
touching  the  eyes,  which  were  small,  and  whose  blue 
color  was  intensified  by  the  red  of  his  complexion  ;  an 
immense  mouth  with  thick  lips,  that,  unable  to  close 
completely,  protruded  in  fleshy  curves  ;  a  large  head ;  a 
flat,  dravvn-in  chest ;  a  hollow  for  a  belly — all  this  sup- 
ported on  knock-kneed  legs,  on  which  the  trousers  hung 
loosely,  and  which  were  terminated  by  ill-shaped  feet 
with  turned-in  toes,  that  bent  sidewise  as  he  walked. 

He  is  as  pretentious  as  the  other,  but  more  amiable. 
He  never  says  "  yes  "  or  "  no  "  ;  he  is  one  of  those  peo- 
ple who  answer  :  "  It  is  said  " ;  "  You  say  so  " ;  "  Such  a 
thing  has  been  known  to  happen  "  ;  "  And  even  if  that 
were  so  "  ;  "  But  yet — " 

In  his  capacity  of  drunkard,  he  consumes  a  great 
deal  of  gin,  and,  in  the  numerous  taverns  at  which  he 
just  looks  in,  he  has  never  asked  for  a  glass  of  liquor. 
He  says  :  "  I  want  something  "  ;  "I  have  a  sou  here  which 
I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  "  ;  then,  "  I  have  another 
sou  here."  And  they  understand  him,  and  he  empties 
his  glass  without  having  compromised  himself  in  words. 

One  day,  when  he  fell  down  in  the  choir,  and  was  so 
drunk  that  he  was  unable  to  get  up  again,  he  said  to  the 
cure,  who  reprimanded  him  sharply,  "  Help  me  to  my 
feet,  and  talk  afterward."  As  a  punishment  for  causing 
this  scandal,  he  was  forbidden  to  wear  his  surplice  for  a 
couple  of  months. 

Such  is  the  man  who  sends  forth  in  the  choir  dron- 
ing sounds  in  which  the  nose  only  takes  part.  Those 
strains  are  so  monotonous,  and  the  ophicleide  accompa- 
nies them  with  such  long-drawn,  wailing  notes,  that  I  can 
scarcely  keep  my  eyes  open. 


58  THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

And  then  this  mass  is  so  long. 

I  grow  weary  like  the  captive  sparrow  who  flies 
against  the  window-panes  or  perches  on  the  little  statues 
that  project  from  the  wall,  forming  tail-pieces  under  the 
arches  of  the  ceiling.  These  statues  have  no  longer  any 
heads.  The  wicked  people  (as  my  grandmother  has  told 
me)  cut  them  off  during  the  Revolution.  The  old  car- 
penter, P ,  was  one  of  these.  Therefore  he  inspires 

me  with  the  same  terror  as  do  the  Jews  who  are  striking 
Jesus  in  the  picture  on  the  altar. 

The  heavy  odor  of  the  incense  makes  me  grow  more 
and  more  sleepy,  and  I  fall  to  dreaming,  looking  through 
half-closed  lids  at  my  little  bueresse,  who  is  so  well-be- 
haved, and  who  prays  with  such  simple  fervor. 


XXVI. 

AFTER  Easter  was  over,  and  Louis  was  well  again,  we 
resumed  our  usual  occupations.  Our  little  rooms  ad- 
joined the  room  of  my  uncle,  which  was  at  the  extreme 
end  of  the  new  part  of  the  house. 

My  uncle  rose  at  five  at  all  seasons  of  the  year,  and 
came  to  my  room,  which  served  him  as  a  dressing-room, 
to  shave.  I  fancy  I  can  still  hear  the  sound  of  the  brush 
rubbing  the  soap  into  a  lather,  the  gliding  of  the  razor 
on  the  strop,  and  the  rasping  noise  it  made  as  he  shaved 
his  harsh  beard. 

Soon  he  uttered  his  invariable  cry,  "  Children,  get 
up  !  "  and,  rubbing  our  sleepy  eyes,  we  would  rise  by  the 
flickering  light  that  cast  dancing  shadows  on  the  bunches 
of  daisies  on  the  carpet. 

As  soon  as  we  were  dressed  we  would  go  and  sit 
down  on  our  hair-cloth  tabourets  with  the  pretense  of 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 


59 


studying  until  half-past  seven.  How  many  times  have  I 
not  wished  to  be  ill  that  I  might  remain  in  bed  !  Day 
dawned  slowly.  The  light  of  the  lamp  grew  paler,  and 
its  yellow  rays  flickered  on  our  lips  in  the  blue  light  of 
morning. 

All  the  familiar  sounds  of  rural  existence  began  to  be 
heard  again,  one  by  one  :  in  the  stables  the  cows  lowed  ; 
in  the  poultry-yards  hens  clucked.  The  doors  of  the 
barns  creaked  upon  their  hinges. 

My  uncle  threw  open  the  blinds. 

When  the  dawn  was  further  advanced  and  the  sky 
grew  rosier  and  brighter  in  the  east,  he  would  call  us 
out  to  the  balcony.  He  spoke  to  us  of  Nature  and  her 
charms.  He  repeated  to  us  the  following  lines  from 
some  old  opera : 

"  Quand  on  fut  toujours  vertueux 
On  aime  a  voir  lever  1'aurore." 

Under  the  purple  light  of  the  sky  the  distant  fields 
stretched  far  away,  still  wrapped  in  the  mists  soon  to  be 
dissipated  by  the  glowing  disk  of  the  sun. 

Against  this  clear  and  brilliant  background  the  old 
thatched  roof  of  Jeannot  stood  out  sharply  like  a  square 
of  black  velvet,  bordered  at  the  top  by  dark-red  flames, 
while  in  the  gray  light  below  the  mist  rose  silently  from 
the  pool  in  the  yard. 

All  was  so  peaceful,  so  sweet ! 

At  half-past  seven  we  went  down-stairs  to  breakfast, 
we  dined  at  half-past  twelve,  and  supped  at  about  eight. 

Although  the  street  and  the  village  surroundings 
were  forbidden  to  us,  the  house,  the  court-yard,  the  poul- 
try-yard, the  sheds,  the  barns,  and,  above  all,  the  gar- 
den, offered  a  sufficiently  wide  field  for  our  prolonged 
recreations. 

It  would  take  too  long  to  describe  our  daily  inter- 


60  THE  LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 

course  with  all  the  creatures  that  inhabited  these  various 
places. 

Butterflies  and  birds,  frogs  and  salamanders  ;  bees, 
drones,  beetles  with  golden  breasts  ;  cock-chafers  that  fell 
to  the  ground  with  the  drops  of  dew  from  the  rose-bush- 
es in  the  morning;  shrew-mice  with  pointed  nose,  and 
eyes  like  grains  of  powder,  moles  and  field-mice,  snails, 
and  you,  lady-bugs,  asparagus-bugs  bearing  shutters  on 
your  backs  ;  and  you,  beautiful  red  insects  that  dwell  in 
the  heart  of  the  lily  and  utter  a  wail  like  the  cry  of  a 
little  puppy  when  one  holds  you  close  to  the  ear  ;  and  that 
insect  with  the  terrible  jaws,  which  raises  its  tail  mena- 
cingly, and  which  we  have  not  the  courage  to  touch  ;  and 
that  other  one,  of  the  color  of  dust,  that  holds  itself  rigid 
when  one  puts  it  on  its  back,  and  then —  tic-tac — jumps 
away  suddenly. 

How  many  times  have  we  been  stung  by  the  bees  ! 
As  for  the  drones,  especially  the  red-tails,  which  are  the 
strongest,  we  would  catch  them  with  our  handkerchief, 
extract  their  sting  with  our  nails,  and  make  them  draw 
little  wagons  to  which  we  harness  them  by  tying  threads 
to  their  feet. 

Sometimes,  to  our  amusement,  they  would  fly  away 
with  their  thread,  borne  down  by  the  weight  of  which 
they  would  fall  back  again,  when  scarcely  a  foot  from 
the  ground,  into  the  border  of  the  grass-plot — poor  prison- 
ers dragging  along  their  chains  ! 

At  other  times  we  would  exhaust  the  patience  of  the 
necrophores  by  pushing  still  deeper  into  the  ground  the 
moles  they  had  almost  finished  burying. 

How  often  have  I  listened  for  hours  at  a  time  to  the 
grasshoppers  chirping  among  the  bushes,  holding  my 
breath,  for  the  least  noise  silences  them,  and  straining 
my  ear,  first  on  one  side  and  then  on  another,  with- 
out ever  being  able  to  discover  the  precise  spot  whence 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST.  6l 

the  cry  proceeded.  The  same  mystery  surrounded  the 
croaking  of  the  little  green  frogs  that  frequented  the 
vines. 

But  the  toads  filled  me  with  horror,  alike  when,  slimy 
and  moist,  they  dragged  themselves  along  the  ground 
after  a  storm,  and  when,  in  dry  weather,  they  moved 
about  upon  the  earth  like  living  clods,  distinguishable 
from  it  only  by  the  shining  of  their  golden  eyes.  All 
these  creatures  whirred,  fluttered,  buzzed,  whistled,  sang ; 
and,  far  away,  far  away,  at  the  end  of  unexplored  fields, 
was  that  mysterious  noise  which  made  our  hearts  quake 
with  a  terror  full  of  charm,  the  cry  of  the  "  Beast,"  of  the 
Torgeos,  pan,  pan,  pan  ! — pan,  pan,  pan  ! 

There  was  also  the  sorrowful  plaint  of  the  fauvet 
whose  nest  we  had  robbed,  that  flew  from  tree  to  tree, 
uttering  its  wailing  cry  like  a  tormented  spirit  seeking 
rest  from  its  anguish  but  finding  none. 


XXVII. 

WHEN  the  animals  failed  us,  we  fell  back  upon  the 
gardener.  I  have  already  spoken  of  Buisine,  nicknamed 
Frise,  a  venerable  old  man  of  patriarchal  aspect,  with  a 
fresh  complexion,  wondering  blue  eyes,  and  a  forehead 
covered  with  a  thick  forest  of  wavy  gray  hair. 

When  he  was  stooping  over  his  work,  we  would  often 
jump,  two  or  three  of  us  at  a  time,  upon  his  back  and 
cling  to  his  blouse,  kicking  our  feet  mischievously.  He 
would  get  angry.  "  He  would  go  complain  to  our  uncle." 
"  We  kept  him  from  his  work."  "  We  were  always  pull- 
ing him  to  pieces."  "  We  were  unendurable." 

But,  as  his  mild  eyes  were  incapable  of  expressing 
anger,  we  only  laughed  at  him.  At  last  he  would  laugh 


62  THE  LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

himself,  threatening  us  playfully  with  his  pruning-hook  ; 
or  he  would  give  us  la  barb — that  is,  he  would  rub  his 
chin,  with  bristles  sharp  as  the  spikes  on  the  cylinder  of 
a  bird  organ,  against  our  cheeks.  And  Frise  gave  us 
bird-organ  music  too,  old  ditties  with  never-ending  re- 
frains. Among  others  he  sang  one  called  ''Joseph  sold 
by  his  Brethren,"  consisting  of  a  hundred  and  one  coup- 
lets, whose  droning  sounds  he  accompanied  with  the 
monotonous  movement  of  his  rake  as  he  cleaned  the 
paths,  or  the  click  of  his  pruning-shears  as  he  clipped  the 

branches : 

"  O  Joseph,  mon  fils  aimable, 
Mon  fils  affable, 
Les  betes  font  devore." 

As  my  uncle  had  had  the  patience  one  day  to  listen 
to  him  till  he  had  sung  the  ditty  to  the  end  and  then 
praised  his  good  memory,  and  told  him  that  such  was 
really  the  history  of  Joseph,  Frise',  delighted  with  the 
compliment,  sought  every  opportunity  to  repeat  his  song, 
and  when  he  had  succeeded  in  making  my  uncle  listen 
to  a  few  verses,  he  would  say  gravely,  "You  know,  M. 
Breton,  that  is  history." 

This  phrase  amused  us,  and  he  made  use  of  it  to 
plague  little  fimile,  who  would  grow  as  angry  as  a  young 
sparrow,  when  we  followed  him  about,  droning  the  ditty 
into  his  ears  ;  and  when  he  would  turn  round,  furious 
and  shoot  arrows  at  us,  happily  harmless  ones,  from  his 
little  bow,  we  would  say  to  him  mockingly,  "  You  see, 
M.  Breton,  that  is  history." 

We  amused  ourselves  also  with  the  gardener,  by  hid- 
ing his  tools,  of  which  he  was  very  fond,  and  the  handles 
of  which  his  rough  hands  had  polished  and  worn,  or  his 
large  cap,  which  exhaled  a  peculiar  odor. 

Many  years  later  it  happened  that  my  father  brought 
home  from  one  of  his  journeys  a  pineapple,  a  fruit  until 


THE  LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST.  63 

then  unknown  to  us.  When  he  was  cutting  it,  a  strange 
perfume  diffused  itself  through  the  room,  and  my  father, 
who  was  very  fond  of  good  eating,  made  us  notice  how 
exquisite  the  odor  was.  Yes,  the  perfume  was  exquisite, 
the  more  so  as  it  awakened  in  us  a  vague  recollection. 
Somewhere  we  had  smelled  something  like  it.  But  what, 
and  where  ? 

We  were  all  trying  to  remember,  when  6mile,  his 
face  lighting  up,  suddenly  cried,  "  Frise's  cap  !  "  Yes,  it 
was  indeed  that. 

We  had  an  affection  for  one  corner  of  the  garden  es- 
pecially— the  dampest  and  the  least  clean.  It  was  there 
that  the  hole  had  been  dug  into  which  Prise*  threw  weeds, 
useless  plants,  and  dead  vegetables,  after  their  seeds  had 
been  gathered. 

A  brick  wall,  low  enough  to  look  over,  surrounded 
the  hole  ;  from  this  wall  we  could  see  over  the  whole 
garden,  with  its  rows  of  painted  posts  surmounted  by 
white  balls.  Oh,  what  a  lovely  night  butterfly  I  dis- 
covered one  morning,  asleep  on  the  damp  moss  that 
covered  this  heap !  How  brightly  it  gleamed,  with  its 
wings  of  black  velvet,  streaked  with  yellow,  and  its  purple 
back,  and  its  under  wings  of  a  superb  red,  dotted  with 
brown  spots  ! 

From  the  top  of  this  wall  we  could  see  the  Chateau 
de  Courrieres,  the  former  dwelling-place  of  the  lords  of 
the  village,  the  last  of  whom,  before  the  Revolution,  was 
the  Baron  de  St.  Victor.  Of  this  chateau,  built  in  the 
style  of  Louis  XV,  the  ugly  old  man  we  have  seen  on 
Easter  Sunday,  standing  at  the  music-desk  in  the  choir, 
had  been  at  one  time  the  steward.  My  father,  who 
had  been  early  left  an  orphan,  had  been  confided  to  the 
care  of  this  man,  and  had  spent  part  of  his  childhood  at 
the  chateau.  He  did  no-t  preserve  a  very  agreeable  rec- 
ollection of  it. 


64  THE  LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 

It  happened  one  day  that  they  locked  him  into  a 
room,  and  as  he  grew  impatient  at  the  length  of  his  cap- 
tivity, my  father,  at  the  risk  of  breaking  his  neck,  escaped 
from  his  prison  by  lowering  himself  to  the  ground  by  his 
hands,  grasping  the  moldings  of  the  fa£ade,  and  then 
ran  and  hid  himself  in  the  depths  of  a  wood,  where  he 
remained  for  three  days,  a  playmate  supplying  him  with 
food. 

Long  abandoned,  this  silent  chateau,  this  prison  of  my 
father,  with  its  barred  windows,  its  deserted  steps,  over- 
grown with  thistles ;  its  tall  chimneys,  from  which  smoke 
never  issued  ;  its  dilapidated  roof,  from  which  the  tiles 
were  being  carried  away  one  by  one  by  the  wind,  was 
associated  much  more  closely  in  my  mind  with  the  tales 
heard  from  my  companions  than  with  the  realities  of 
daily  life.  It  affected  my  imagination  powerfully.  Those 
closed  shutters,  I  thought,  must  conceal  behind  them 
some  strange  mystery. 

This  Specter  of  the  Past  stood  there  silent  in  the 
midst  of  the  golden  harvests  of  the  old  park  surrounded 
by  its  moat.  It  was  inhabited  now  only  by  the  owls, 
but  I  could  never  disassociate  from  it,  in  my  thoughts, 
the  image  of  the  ugly  tyrant  who  had  once  inhabited  it. 

For  the  most  part,  then,  our  hours  of  recreation  were 
passed  in  the  garden,  which  we  quitted  only  when  night 
fell. 

Ah !  what  happy  summer  evenings  I  have  spent 
there  ! 

Hazy  shadows  hung  in  every  corner,  while  the  tops 
of  the  pear-trees,  trimmed  in  the  form  of  a  distaff,  were 
gilded  by  the  splendors  of  the  setting  sun.  A  light 
breeze  sprang  up  from  time  to  time,  setting  in  motion 
the  warm  vapors  that  hung  heavy  over  the  earth. 

The  sky  was  darkened  by  clouds  of  buzzing  insects 
and  shadowy  gleams  of  red  light  that  floated  away,  far 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST.  65 

into  the  depths  of  space,  where  the  white  stars  were  ap- 
pearing one  by  one. 

Amid  the  sound  of  fluttering  wings  and  rustling 
leaves,  the  sparrows  came,  one  by  one,  to  hide  them- 
selves under  the  leafy  garlands  that  crowned  the  gar- 
den wall. 

At  times  the  night-moth  darted  past,  swift  as  an  ar- 
row, making  the  drowsy  silence  quiver.  Other  moths 
circled  giddily  around  clumps  of  volubilis-pdlis. 

The  twilight  lent  a  sweet  and  peaceful  charm  to  all 
these  objects,  lighted  up  only  here  and  there  by  a  ray  of 
dying  light.  Nature  sank  gently  among  the  gathering 
shadows  into  a  sleep  that  was  disturbed  from  time  to 
time  by  the  noise  made  by  some  nocturnal  prowler.  A 
pure  and  intense  poetic  spell  hung  over  everything. 


xxvni. 

MY  father,  however,  was  laying  out  a  second  gar- 
den, which  was  to  be  three  or  four  times  as  large  as  the 
other,  and  which,  as  we  children  thought,  was  going  to 
be  a  marvel. 

The  site  chosen  for  it  was  on  the  banks  of  the 
Souchez,  in  the  lower  marsh,  six  or  seven  minutes'  walk 
distant  from  the  house. 

We  spent  there  part  of  our  hours  of  recreation,  and 
I  assure  you  that  nothing  could  have  amused  us  more 
than  to  see  all  those  men,  almost  naked,  covered  with 
mud,  their  trousers  tucked  half-way  up  the  thigh,  dig- 
ging hollows  and  raising  hills,  passing  and  repassing, 
with  their  muddy  barrows  over  the  planks  that,  seesaw- 
like,  would  sometimes  rise  up  into  the  air  and  then  fall 
noisily  down  again, 
5 


66  THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 

My  father  had  laid  out  the  plans  for  the  garden, 
making  the  most  of  the  shrubs  that  grew  in  it,  and  util- 
izing the  ponds  and  trenches.  He  planned  various  sur- 
prises. For  instance,  the  gate  was  to  open  into  a  sim- 
ple kitchen-garden,  terminating  in  an  ordinary  orchard. 
But,  arriving  there,  you  found  yourself  suddenly  before 
a  fountain  surrounded  by  thuyas,  laburnums,  and  lilacs, 
whose  jet,  which  rose  from  a  natural  spring,  fell  with  a 
delightful  murmur  into  the  basin,  the  chosen  haunt  of 
the  frogs. 

They  had  found  this  spring  scarcely  two  feet  under- 
ground without  any  difficulty,  while  a  chatelaine  of  the 
neighborhood  had  spent  fabulous  sums  in  fruitless  bor- 
ing. Providence  must  have  guided  them.* 

Then  there  were  to  be  bridges  spanning  the  trench- 
es ;  three  little  ponds  starred  with  water-lilies,  where  the 
gold-fish  leaped  about,  flashing  in  the  sunlight ;  leafy 
bowers  for  archery,  the  cross-bow,  and  bowls;  a  pavil- 
ion ;  circular  lawns  bordered  with  rose-bushes  ;  a  dark 
grove  with  a  labyrinthine  walk ;  a  little  bathing-house 
with  a  terrace  ;  and  another  fountain,  this  latter  artificial. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  Souchez  was  to  be  a  larger 
pond,  bordered  by  sunflowers,  hollyhocks,  and  various 
tall,  broad-leaved  plants  bearing  large  flowers,  in  which 
was  to  be  a  wooded  island,  in  the  shape  of  a  pear,  the 
most  retired  spot  of  the  garden,  and  to  be  reached  by  a 
small  boat. 

Thanks  to  the  former  plantations,  which  had  been 
preserved,  and  to  the  fertility  of  the  soil,  this  garden 
soon  became  what  was  in  those  days  called  an  enchant- 
ing retreat. 

*  These  borings  were  not  altogether  useless,  since  they  resulted 
in  the  discovery  of  veins  of  coal,  the  beginning  of  the  coal-beds  of 
Pas-de-Calais. 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST.  67 

My  uncle  was  passionately  fond  of  it,  and  spent 
there  a  part  of  every  day. 

During  the  Ducasse  *  lovers  walked  in  it  in  the  morn- 
ing, as  if  it  were  a  public  garden.  Sometimes  my  father 
would  hire  musicians  who  played  on  the  platform  of  the 
bathing- pavilion,  while  couples  danced  on  the  grass,  as 
they  do  in  the  engravings,  after  Teniers,  which  adorn 
my  godfather's  parlor.  What  bursts  of  laughter,  what 
songs,  and  what  cries  of  joy,  to  which  a  thousand  birds, 
concealed  among  the  branches,  responded  !  What  boat- 
ing excursions,  what  careless,  happy  hours ! 

Some  townspeople  of  Lille,  old  friends  of  my  uncle, 
shaking  off  for  a  time  the  cares  of  their  somber  dwell- 
ings, would  occasionally  visit  us  with  their  wives,  and 
intoxicate  themselves  with  the  delights  of  country  life, 
the  greenery,  and  the  summer  sunshine,  and  sport  like 
children  among  the  flowers,  beside  themselves  with 
joy. 

On  the  pond  the  boatmen  would  make  the  boat  rock 
in  order  to  frighten  "  the  ladies,"  who  would  utter  cries 
of  terror,  followed  by  the  delicate  pleasantries  of  the 
time. 

One  day,  one  of  these  citizens  of  Lille,  a  man  of  ma- 
ture age,  married  to  a  young  wife,  affected  by  the  gen- 
eral gayety,  behaved  so  well  on  the  boat  that  he  lost  his 
balance  and  fell  into  the  water.  They  dragged  him  out, 
covered  with  aquatic  plants  that  clung  to  his  clothes, 
from  which  the  water  poured  in  a  stream,  and  looking 
very  serious.  Madame,  seized  with  a  violent  attack  of 
hysterics,  heaped  abuse  upon  him,  interrupted  from 
time  to  time  by  her  spasms.  They  went  to  the  house 
for  dry  clothes,  while  the  gentleman,  enveloped  in  a  rug, 
which  he  wore  like  a  toga,  walked  about  in  the  sunshine 

*  A  local  festival. 


68  THE  LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

drying  himself  and,  madame  being  appeased,  declaim- 
ing, "Of  him,  the  greatest  Roman  of  them  all,"  etc. 

I  remember,  too,  those  delightful  summer  evenings, 
when  we  would  linger  after  nightfall  with  my  uncle  on 
the  terrace  of  the  bathing-pavilion,  to  sing  nocturnes  in 
the  midst  of  the  silence  and  the  solitude,  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  the  croaking  of  the  frogs  : 

"  Berger,  cours  &  la  belle 
Jurer  flamme  e"ternelle 
L'etoile  du  soir  luit ! " 

And  there,  indeed,  above  the  dark  foliage  of  the 
wood,  the  evening  star  was  shining. 

The  Carperie  enjoyed  the  distinguished  privilege  of 

being  sung  in  pompous  alexandrines.  The  Abbe"  D , 

the  vicar  of  Courrieres,  wrote  in  honor  of  it  a  poem  con- 
sisting of  five  or  six  cantos. 

This  ecclesiastic,  a  devotee  of  the  Muses  and  of  the 
pleasures  of  the  table,  in  order  to  embellish  our  garden, 
drew  upon  his  mythological  reminiscences;  and  Flora, 
Pomona,  Ceres,  the  nymphs,  the  satyrs,  the  nai'ads,  and 
innumerable  zephyrs,  came  to  people,  in  his  verses,  our 
parterres,  our  orchards,  our  ponds,  and  our  groves. 

Venus  herself  did  not  disdain  to  come  down  and 
take  up  her  abode  on  the  island  of  Cytherea,  as  the 
little  pear-shaped,  wooded  island  emerging  from  the 
bosom  of  our  pond  was  called.  Naturally  he  made 
this  island  the  abode  of  a  hermit. 

This  hermit  was  none  other  than  my  uncle,  probably 
represented  by  the  fancy  of  the  poet  under  the  guise  of 
an  all-powerful  Jupiter.  And,  indeed,  the  title  of  hermit 
suited  him  very  well  ;  for,  although  he  lived  only  for 
others,  he  had  lived  almost  always  alone. 

As  for  me,  I  confess  I  never  discovered  any  mytho- 
logical deity  in  the  Carperie,  not  even  the  fairies,  who 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 


69 


were  the  most  familiar  to  us;  but  I  saw  there  one  day, 
the  idiot  Benesi,  who,  with  his  shirt  over  his  coat,  was 
singing  vesper  hymns  in  the  laburnum  bower,  that  he 
doubtless  took  for  an  oratory. 

Thousands  of  yellow  blossoms  hung  in  clusters  from 
the  leafy  trellis,  and  the  sunlight,  filtering  through  the 
branches,  lighted  them  up  here  and  there  in  the  midst 
of  the  surrounding  shadow,  making  them  look  like  the 
lights  in  a  chapel. 


XXIX. 

ABOUT  this  time  great  preparations  were  going  on  at 
our  house.  Fremy  washed  and  revarnished  his  paint- 
ings ;  Joseph  hurried  to  pluck  the  smallest  blade  of 
grass  that  showed  itself  among  the  pebbles  in  the  yard  ; 
Phillipine  rubbed,  scrubbed,  and  polished,  and,  when 
she  was  not  doing  this,  danced  on  her  waxing-brush 
over  the  floors,  making  them  shine  like  a  mirror. 

Everybody  was  in  a  hurry. 

The  gardener's  rake  moved  about  so  quickly  in  the 
walks  that  "  Joseph  and  his  Brethren  "  passed  from  an 
andante  to  an  allegro.  (We  had  begun  music.) 

One  thought  filled  the  mind  of  everybody. 

Soon  cries  of  distress  from  the  chickens,  the  ducks, 
and  the  turkeys  that  were  being  killed,  resounded  in  the 
back  yard. 

Articles  hitherto  unknown  there  made  their  appear- 
ance in  the  house. 

All  this  delighted  me  greatly,  the  more  so  as,  in  the 
midst  of  the  feverish  agitation  that  prevailed,  we  were 
able  to  neglect  our  studies  with  impunity. 

In  brief,  we  were  expecting  a  visit  from  one  of  the 


;0  THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

greatest  noblemen  of  the  kingdom,  the  Duke  of  Dur- 
fort  de  Duras. 

I  knew  him  from  his  portrait,  painted  in  the  costume 
of  a  peer  of  France,  that  formed  a  companion  piece  to 
the  portrait  of  Charles  X. 

He  was  represented  in  it  as  young,  dignified,  and 
handsome. 

When  the  long-expected  day  arrived,  every  house 
was  hung  with  garlands  of  leaves  and  flowers.  Groups 
gathered  at  every  corner.  We  were  all  at  our  front 
door,  which  stood  wide  open. 

At  last  the  noise  of  wheels  was  heard  at  the  bend  of 
the  road,  which  was  enveloped  in  a  cloud  of  dust ;  men 
and  women  rushed  forward  toward  a  post-chaise  drawn 
by  four  horses  that  came  galloping  up  the  street,  amid 
the  cries  of  "  Vive  monseigneur  !  " 

The  postilions  wore  red  trousers,  high  boots,  braid- 
ed jackets,  and  oil-cloth-covered  caps.  I  thought  them 
magnificent.  But  I  was  greatly  disappointed  when  I 
saw  the  duke,  who,  alas !  bore  scarcely  any  resemblance 
to  his  portrait. 

He  descended  from  the  chaise  with  the  help  of  a 
chair  which  they  brought  him.  He  looked  to  me  old; 
his  cheeks  were  flabby,  his  complexion  highly  colored, 
his  nose  too  big.  He  had  a  mole  on  the  left  temple,  I 
think  it  was,  and  wore  a  cloth  cap  over  a  silk  one,  from 
beneath  which  straggled  a  few  white  hairs. 

I,  who  had  expected  regal  magnificence,  stood  there, 
my  eyes  wide  open  with  amazement,  to  see  an  old  man 
differing  so  little  from  other  old  men. 

His  face  was  lighted  up,  however,  by  a  look  of  benev- 
olence. 

He  embraced  us  affectionately  and  made  inquiries, 
not  only  concerning  our  health,  but  our  little  occu- 
pations. He  even  went  into  the  kitchen  in  the  after- 


THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST.  71 

noon,  and  seated  himself  in  the  corner  of  the  Louis 
Quinze  fireplace,  beside  my  grandmother,  with  whom 
he  chatted  for  a  long  time. 

I  recollect  that  after  dinner  my  uncle  spoke  to  him 
of  his  ancestors,  of  some  of  his  illustrious  friends,  and 
of  the  romances  of  the  duchess,  his  first  wife. 

The  duke,  charmed  to  find  so  lettered  a  man  and 
one  who  was  so  well  acquainted  with  his  history  among 
country  people,  complimented  him  on  his  knowledge  in 
courteous  and  even  friendly  terms. 

As  for  us,  we  soon  found  a  comrade  in  the  person  of 
his  valet,  M.  Michel,  a  Pole,  a  man  about  forty  years 
old,  very  quick  in  his  movements  and  who  stuttered 
frightfully,  which  at  times  made  him  appear  in  a  very 
comical  light. 

He  was  very  tall  (at  least  six  feet  high).  I  have 
heard  my  father  say  that  he  carried  his  devotion  to  his 
master  so  far  as  to  add,  out  of  his  own  pocket,  to  the 
gratuities  of  which  the  latter  made  him  the  disburser. 
Where  do  we  see  a  valet  now  who  would  sacrifice  his 
savings  to  protect  a  great  nobleman's  reputation  ? 

Michel  loved  children,  and  after  the  first  day  we 
amused  ourselves  by  plaguing  him  as  if  he  were  of  no 
greater  consequence  than  Frise  himself. 

St  John's  day  arrived. 

At  this  time  all  the  women  and  young  girls  assemble 
at  the  cross-roads  of  the  village  and  dance  and  sing 
roundelays  in  the  twilight,  often  prolonging  these  fes- 
tivities far  into  the  night. 

.  Those  who  lived  in  our  street  came  to  sing  under 
the  windows  of  the  duke,  who  had  retired  early.  He 
slept  on  a  mattress,  which  was  not  horizontal,  but  sloped 
a  little  toward  the  feet,  a  peculiarity  that  had  seemed  to 
me  odd. 

These  rounds  and  village  lays  at  first  amused  the 


72  THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

duke,  but  at  the  end  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  was 
tired  of  them.  Not  wishing  to  offend  these  villagers, 
however,  who  devoted  themselves  so  heartily  to  the  task 
of  amusing  him,  he  sent  Michel  to  them,  after  he  had 
thanked  them,  giving  him  orders  to  take  them  to  the 
village  inn  and  offer  them  refreshments. 

The  jovial  valet,  according  to  his  custom,  supple- 
mented his  master's  generosity  with  attentions  of  his 
own ;  not  content  with  regaling  the  women  at  the  inn, 
he  took  them  from  wine-shop  to  wine-shop,  recruiting 
their  numbers  on  the  way  by  members  of  other  bands, 
so  that  these  feminine  heads  soon  became  heated  with 
wine,  and  by  midnight  the  excited  troop  were  running 
through  the  streets  of  Courrieres,  crying,  "Vive  Mon- 
sieur Michel !  Vive  Monsieur  de  Duras  !  " 

This  was  not  the  duke's  only  visit  to  Courrieres. 
He  came  a  second  time,  accompanied  by  the  duchess,  a 
tall  Spanish  woman  with  long  features,  who  wore  a  little 
green  veil.  We  saw  again  our  friend  Michel.  We  neg- 
lected him  a  little,  however,  for  the  femme  de  chambre 
of  the  duchess,  a  young  and  pretty  brunette  with  lively 
manners,  who  rolled  us  on  the  grass  of  the  lawn,  kissed 
us,  and  tickled  us,  much  to  our  delight.  And  when  we 
shot  our  arrows  into  the  air  she  would  cry,  with  a  look 
of  surprise,  "  See,  how  high  !  "  There  was  in  the  neigh- 
borhood a  company  of  little  archers,  whose  ages  ranged 
from  ten  to  fifteen,  whose  berceau  (target)  was  set  up  at 
the  end  of  a  dry  ditch  that  bordered  the  road  leading 
to  the  village. 

The  joyous  exclamations  of  these  boys  reached  us 
in  our  house,  and  attracted  the  attention  of  the  great 
lady,  who,  wishing  to  see  the  sport  near  by,  caused  her- 
self to  be  carried  in  a  chair  to  the  edge  of  the  ditch. 
The  sport,  interrupted  for  an  instant,  began  again  gayly. 
It  occurred  to  the  duchess  to  give  two  sous  to  the  boy 


THE  LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST.  73 

who  should  succeed  in  hitting  the  red  circle  around  the 
bull's-eye.  This  redoubled  the  ardor  of  the  contestants, 
who  accomplished  prodigies  of  skill. 

A  little  sick  boy,  muffled  up  to  the  eyes  in  a  cap  of 
woolen  cloth,  was  an  object  of  special  interest. 

The  shots  which  hit  the  circle,  however,  became  so 
frequent  that  they  were  at  last  rewarded  by  only  one 
sou. 

This  was  another  piece  of  economy  which  Michel 
would  not  have  practiced. 


XXX. 

IDEAS  present  themselves  to  the  mind  of  the  child 
under  the  form  of  images.  Before  we  reason,  we  im- 
agine. Imagination !  I  know  not  why  it  is  that  this 
marvelous  faculty,  instead  of  becoming  stronger  as  the 
reasoning  powers  develop,  declines  with  their  growth. 
They  stifle  it,  and  this  is  to  be  greatly  regretted. 

There  is  nothing  more  delightful  than  to  yield  one's 
self  up  to  this  creative  power,  which  can  evoke  to  being, 
under  our  closed  eyelids,  so  many  strange  and  beautiful 
forms,  impalpable  and  yet  plain  to  the  inner  sight,  and 
illuminated,  as  it  were,  by  supernatural  splendors. 

How  I  longed  for  the  moment  when,  cuddled  in  my 
warm  bed,  the  light  extinguished,  I  prepared  to  witness 
this  diurnal  spectacle. 

At  first  pale  twilight  gleams,  mingled  with  dark, 
floating  shadows,  moved  before  my  closed  eyes,  eddying 
in  a  formless  chaos — an  image  of  creation,  where  points 
of  light,  like  stars,  soon  sparkled. 

Then  forms  began  to  take  shape,  massed  themselves 
together,  gradually  grew  clearer  and  then  changed  into 


74  THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

other  forms  ;  all  this  absolutely  without  effort  of  the  will 
on  my  part,  and  accompanied  by  ever-new  surprises. 

The  pictures  followed  one  another,  beautiful,  fan- 
tastic, wild,  or  horrible,  according  to  the  mood  I  was  in. 

I  looked  at  them  all  with  curiosity  and  delight,  and 
without  fear. 

At  times  I  saw  wide  plains  the  color  of  blood,  wrapped 
in  shadow,  where  hideous  serpents,  stiff  as  posts,  crawled 
with  a  jerking  movement  that  kept  time  to  the  beating 
of  my  heart.  And  then  all  this  grew  luminous  ;  the  ser- 
pents stretched  themselves  out  into  garlands  of  flowers  ; 
marvelous  birds  flew  back  and  forth  ;  the  sails  of  wind- 
mills turned  round  and  round  against  the  background 
of  the  sky,  and  then  all  soared  upward  in  a  dizzy  whirl, 
in  which  I  felt  myself  borne,  with  my  bed,  dazzled  and 
intoxicated.  Oh,  how  beautiful  it  all  was  ! 

This  picture  would  vanish.  Then  I  saw  the  sea  as  I 
had  heard  it  described,  like  an  immense  piece  of  cloth, 
furling  and  unfurling  itself.  I  felt  myself  caught  up  and 
rocked  delightfully  in  its  folds.  Then  it  was  the  sky  ; 
nothing  was  to  be  seen  but  the  sky,  hung  with  glorious 
golden  clouds  on  which  walked  St.  Nicholas,  St.  Cath- 
arine, the  Virgin,  and  the  infant  Jesus,  and  where  hov- 
ered groups  of  joyous,  blue-winged  angels. 

At  other  times  I  saw  dark  rooms  filled  with  strange 
implements  like  those  in  our  barn,  and  vast  kitchens 
where  burned  immense  fires,  before  which  the  devil 
turned  the  spit.  Or,  the  room  would  be  filled  with 
showers  of  many-colored  rockets,  like  those  I  have  since 
seen  in  displays  of  fire-works. 

At  times  I  saw  animated  toys,  marching  by  them- 
selves in  procession — guns,  Punch-and-Judies,  Pan- 
flutes,  trumpets ;  and  also  sights  that  were  more  natural, 
the  real  procession  in  which  the  cure",  the  choir-singers, 
Mademoiselle  Rosalie,  and  Benesi  took  part,  One  day 


THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 


75 


— oh,  joy  ! — my  mother  rose  suddenly  before  me  and 
clasped  me  in  her  arms. 

And,  as  I  have  said  before,  all  these  pictures  ap- 
peared before  me  without  effort  of  the  will  on  my  part, 
really  visible  to  the  inner  sight,  and  not  those  vague  im- 
ages that  later  haunt  the  brain — images  so  slow  to  take 
the  final  shapes  in  which  we  clothe  them. 

I  think  many  children  possess  this  gift  of  inner  sight. 
My  brothers  and  I  described  these  visions  to  one  anoth- 
er, sometimes  from  one  room  to  another  at  the  moment 
of  their  appearance. 


XXXI. 

MY  uncle  had  a  great  affection  for  Lille,  where  he 
had  spent  the  best  part  of  his  youth. 

He  often  spoke  to  us  of  that  city,  of  its  theatre,  its 
concerts,  its  houses  with  their  richly  decorated  rooms 
and  resplendent  windows. 

I  could  form  to  myself  no  idea  of  all  this,  and  in  my 
nocturnal  visions  Lille  appeared  to  me  like  a  vague 
splendor,  a  crowd  of  people  and  of  carriages  with  fine 
postilions  and,  heaped  on  the  roofs  of  houses  dazzlingly 
white  and  of  immense  size,  gold  and  precious  stones  like 
those  of  fairy-land.  These  fantastic  images  haunted  me 
particularly  on  the  night  preceding  our  journey  to  Lille. 

We  set  out  early  in  the  morning,  my  uncle,  Louis, 
and  I.  We  were  to  take  the  Carvin- Lille  coach,  a  line 
established  by  Maximilian  Robespierre,  a  member  of  the 
family  of  the  Robespierre  of  the  Convention,  who  was  a 
native  of  Carvin.* 

*  On  seeing  a  cast  of  the  tribune,  later,  I  was  struck  by  its  re- 
semblance to  the  Robespierre  I  knew. 


76  THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

The  coach  was  already  full,  which  did  not  prevent 
them,  however,  not  only  from  crowding  all  three  of  us 
into  it,  but  from  heaping  up  there  besides  the  numerous 
packages  which  the  driver,  Maximilian  himself,  took  up 
on  the  way.  And  yet  there  are  still  people  who  exe- 
crate railroads. 

It  took  us  three  hours  and  a  half  to  travel  five  leagues, 
for  Maximilian  practiced  the  worship  of  the  Genevan  god 
and  made  frequent  libations  at  his  shrine.  The  thought 
of  the  wonders  I  was  going  to  see,  however,  made  me 
bear  this  long  torture  with  patience. 

At  last  we  arrived  at  Lille. 

The  Porte-de-Paris,  with  its  massive  architecture,  in 
the  style  of  Louis  XIV,  impressed  me  somewhat. 

I  was  also  struck  by  the  immense  number  of  wind- 
mills, that,  like  a  cloud  of  gigantic  cock-chafers,  agitated 
their  wings  in  the  air.  But  how  describe  what  I  felt, 
when,  having  reached  the  inn  (Moulin  de  I'Arbrisseau) 
where  the  coach  stopped,  after  having  stretched  our- 
selves and  recovered  to  some  extent  from  the  effects  of 
the  cramped  position  we  had  maintained  in  the  coach 
(one  may  fancy  the  state  in  which  people  must  be  who 
for  three  leagues  had  not  been  able  to  move  even  so 
much  as  the  tip  of  their  fingers) — when,  I  say,  I  could 
contemplate  at  my  ease  the  promised  marvels  ! 

There  they  are,  the  houses  of  my  dreams,  those 
yellow  houses,  grimy  and  hideous. 

Behind  those  mean-looking  fronts  it  is  that  stream 
the  splendors  of  gilded  salons. 

We  were  given  no  opportunity,  however,  on  this  oc- 
casion, of  seeing  these  gilded  salons.  In  the  house  at 
which  we  stopped  we  were  shown  into  a  large  room 
filled  with  ugly  objects — high  porcelain  stoves,  and  par- 
cels of  various  shapes  and  sizes. 

There  gentlemen  with   black  or   red   side-whiskers 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 


77 


glanced  up  at  us  and  then  went  on  with  their  writing. 
Then  one  of  them,  his  quill  pen  sticking  behind  his  ear, 
went  to  look  for  the  landlord.  The  latter  came  to  us 
with  noisy  protestations  of  friendship  ;  led  us  through 
long  passages  full  of  windows,  but  none  the  less  dark 
on  that  account ;  and  showed  us,  at  the  end  of  a  little 
court,  which  the  sun  never  visited,  into  a  pretty  pavilion 
built  in  a  style  of  architecture  like  that  of  the  little  tem- 
ple on  the  roof  of  our  pigeon-house,  and  my  uncle  and 
his  companion  chatted  and  laughed  incessantly,  recall- 
ing a  thousand  past  events  in  which  we  had  had  no 
part,  while  we  remained  there  yawning,  our  eyes  fixed 
alternately  on  an  alabaster  clock  and  a  porcelain  figure 
of  Napoleon,  who  from  the  column  on  which  he  stood 
directed  an  imaginary  battle. 

And  when  we  came  out  my  uncle  said  to  us,  "  There 
is  a  happy  man,  who  has  plenty  of  money." 

In  the  hotel  at  which  we  put  up  we  found  the  same 
dark  passages,  the  same  dark  and  narrow  yard,  the 
same  commonplace  porcelain  ornaments.  And  every- 
where the  same  thing  was  repeated  ;  and  my  uncle,  at 
every  new  sight,  would  nod  his  head  with  an  expression 
which  seemed  to  say,  "  Well,  my  child,  what  do  you 
think  of  that?  "  And,  in  order  not  to  offend  him,  of 
course  we  were  obliged  to  pretend  to  admire  every- 
thing. 

We  dined  at  the  house  of  some  friends,  where,  at 
least,  we  found  children ;  but,  just  as  we  thought  we  were 
going  to  be  rewarded  for  our  past  disappointments  by 
some  entertaining  game,  we  discovered  that  we  were 
among  good  boys,  who  shortly  opened  their  History  of 
France,  where  we  were  obliged  to  look  at  endless  like- 
nesses of  the  Merovingians  in  the  traditional  oval.  And, 
indeed,  whenever  those  pale  city-bred  boys  chanced  to 
move  their  elbows  a  little  too  quickly,  their  mother,  with 


78  THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

glare  and  severe  glance,  would  immediately  reprimand 
them  for  it. 

This  gave  me  enough  of  the  Merovingians ! 

But  I  must  bear  witness  to  the  prodigious  learning  of 
these  babies,  beside  whom  we  felt  ourselves  to  be  only 
village  donkeys. 

After  the  champagne  we  were  allowed  to  stretch 
ourselves  a  little  in  the  low  kitchen  where  these  young 
gentlemen  kept  their  playthings. 

Oh  !  what  a  gloomy  room — with  its  dark  windows, 
through  which  the  light  scarcely  ever  penetrated — light 
that  came  down  from  an  invisible  sky  between  walls 
of  grimy  brick,  at  whose  feet  a  narrow  stream  dragged 
along  its  muddy  waters  in  shiny  eddies  formed  by  the 
heaps  of  broken  bottles  and  bits  of  crockery  and  other 
countless  objects  that  encumbered  its  bed  ! 

At  night  everything  wore  a  different  aspect.  The 
city  was  then  lighted  up,  and  I  experienced  a  genuine 
pleasure  in  the  long  walk  we  took  between  the  rows  of 
booths  erected  for  the  fair  in  the  great  square.  A  pleas- 
ant odor  of  spice-cake,  oranges,  and  perfumery  mingled, 
diffused  itself  through  these  improvised  walks  that  re- 
sounded with  the  cries  of  the  venders.  How  many 
beautiful  objects  were  there  displayed,  transfigured  in 
the  floods  of  light  which  the  lamps  and  the  candles 
shed  around  in  profusion :  ingenious  toys,  tempting 
bonbons,  weapons,  carved  walking  -  sticks,  knives  of 
every  shape,  curious  snuff-boxes,  and  magnificent  gilded 
clocks,  with  figures  of  pretty  shepherdesses  or  naked 
savages ! 

I  saw  there  also  strange  fruits  which  a  Turk,  like  one 
of  those  in  the  Magasin  P {Moresque  (the  new  periodical 
which  amused  us  so  greatly),  was  selling. 

What  was  my  surprise  to  see  this  Turk  shake  hands 
with  my  uncle  and  enter  into  friendly  conversation  with 


THE    LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST.  70 

him  !  How  proud  I  was  of  having  an  uncle  who  was  on 
such  familiar  terms  with  a  Turk  ! 

I  was  not  so  proud  of  my  brother  Louis  though,  who, 
notwithstanding  my  repeated  remonstrances,  hobbled 
along  in  full  view  of  everybody,  the  poor  boy  having 
burned  his  foot  a  few  days  before  by  upsetting  the 
coffee-pot  as  it  stood  on  the  kitchen  fire. 

He  had  begged  so  hard  to  be  taken  with  us  that  my 
uncle  had  brought  him,  a  slipper  covering  his  burned 
foot.  I  felt  on  this  account  a  foolish  mortification. 

We  visited  the  museum. 

I  thought  all  those  large  paintings,  dark  and  smoky- 
looking,  very  fine  indeed,  but,  I  must  confess,  not  very 
amusing.  Louis  frankly  avowed  that  he  preferred  the 
cabinet  of  natural  history,  where  were  a  large  whale  and 
some  pretty  birds  of  various  colors.  I  would  have  been 
of  his  opinion  also  had  this  not  been  unworthy  the  dig- 
nity of  a  future  painter. 

As  yet  Fremy  was  more  within  my  comprehension 
than  Rubens.  Happily,  I  was  able  to  admire  sincerely 
a  little  picture  of  the  Flemish  school,  in  which  two  old 
men  were  represented  reading  in  a  large  book  by  the 
light  of  a  lamp.  The  light  of  this  lamp  was  perfect. 
The  slender  flame  passed  so  naturally  from  blue  to  yel- 
low, and  then  to  a  smoky  red.  The  only  fault  was,  that 
the  light  cast  on  the  figures  was  too  red. 

In  the  evening  my  uncle  took  us  to  the  theatre, 
where  they  were  playing  The  Dumb  Girl  of  Portici.  We 
were  the  first  of  the  audience  to  arrive.  The  hall  was 
still  empty,  and  was  dimly  illuminated  by  the  bluish 
light  that  came  from  the  ceiling.  Then  they  lowered 
the  chandelier,  which  an  attendant  turned  round,  light- 
ing each  of  the  lamps  in  succession. 

Soon  the  hall  was  brilliant  with  light,  but  its  splendor 
fell  far  short  of  that  of  my  nocturnal  visions.  The  orches- 


80  THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST. 

tra  played  a  prelude.  From  time  to  time  fingers  were 
thrust  through  little  holes  in  the  curtain,  through  which, 
at  other  times,  eyes  shone.  I  was  again  made  proud  by 
seeing  my  uncle  make  a  friendly  gesture  to  the  first  horn, 
his  old  teacher,  and  an  incomparable  musician,  whose  face 
bore  so  strong  a  likeness  to  that  of  the  chrysalis  of  the 
butterfly  known  as  Vulcan  that,  as  his  name  was  Laoust, 
we  called  those  chrysalids  ever  after  Monsieur  Laousts. 

The  opera  began,  but  there  was  too  much  singing  in 
it.  I  could  not  understand  a  word.  I  amused  myself 
by  looking  at  the  costumes  and  the  decorations  of  the 
theatre. 

In  the  last  act  1  saw  the  Vesuvius  of  our  school- 
room represented  on  the  stage.  Here  a  new  disillusion 
awaited  me.  I  discovered  immediately  the  cords  fast- 
ened to  the  stones  used  in  the  eruption,  and  then  the 
dumb  girl  threw  herself,  without  any  attempt  at  decep- 
tion, not  into  the  crater,  but  beside  it. 

As  for  my  uncle,  he  bounded  from  his  seat  at  every 
moment,  with  such  bursts  of  enthusiasm  as  to  draw  upon 
him  the  ridicule  of  our  neighbors. 


XXXII. 

"  Le  reverrai-je,  enfant  qui  traversas  mon  reve, 
Le  temps  que  met  1'etoile  a  passer  dans  la  nuit  !  .  .  . 
C'etait  un  jour  de  mai  tranquille  ou  pour  tout  bruit 
Aux  branches  ou  croyait  ouie  monter  la  seve." 

WHEN  she  arrived  with  her  father  it  seemed  as  if  a 
ray  of  paradise  had  entered  the  house,  so  heavenly  was 
the  light  that  shone  in  her  blue  eyes ;  so  bright  was  her 
golden  hair,  and  so  dazzling  the  rosy  whiteness  of  her 
skin. 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST.  gl 

Whence  did  she  come  ?  Where  has  she  gone  ?  I 
know  not.  Nothing  remains  in  my  memory  but  the 
name  of  her  father — vague,  also,  Dubois,  a  name  so 
common  that  it  can  scarcely  be  said  to  indicate  any  par- 
ticular individual.  And  whence  came  the  charm  that 
attracted  us  all  the  moment  we  saw  her,  at  the  same 
time  that  it  kept  us  at  a  distance,  for  from  the  very  be- 
ginning we  were  bashful  and  shy  in  her  presence  ? 

Other  little  girls  did  not  produce  this  effect  upon  us. 
Why  did  we  forget  our  toys  ?  I  can  see  her  now,  walk- 
ing down  along  the  garden,  without  once  turning  round 
to  look  at  us. 

We  watched  her  from  a  distance  in  silence.  Then, 
with  assumed  boldness,  we  jostled  each  other  noisily, 
laughing  loudly  to  attract  her  attention.  We  could  not 
think  how  to  make  the  first  advances. 

But  in  the  evening,  before  we  were  put  to  bed,  when 
godmother  had  arrayed  her  in  her  little  muslin  night- 
dress, and  imprisoned  her  curls  under  a  cap,  she  ap- 
peared to  us  more  like  one  of  ourselves,  and  we  kissed 
her  and  I  fell  in  love  with  her  at  once. 

And  the  following  day  !  Oh,  what  a  happy  day  it 
was,  brightened  by  her  presence  !  How  joyously  the 
rosy  light  played  on  the  ceiling  in  my  room  when  I 
opened  my  eyes  in  the  morning — rosy  as  the  little  girl's 
frock  ! 

At  dinner  they  put  her  chair  beside  mine. 

From  that  moment  we  were  friends. 

We  shared  each  other's  dessert.  We  had  drunk  some 
champagne  and  our  tongues  were  loosened.  Oh,  there 
was  no  more  timidity  after  that  ! 

She  followed  us  out  on  the  lawn.     There  we  sported 

like  mad  creatures,  turning  around  with   outstretched 

arms  like  windmills,  until  we  grew  dizzy  and  fell,  one  on 

top  of  another,  on  the  grass.     We  got  up  again  stagger- 

6 


82  THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST. 

ing.  The  earth  seemed  to  rise  with  us,  then  sink  away 
from  under  our  feet.  The  walls  of  the  garden  con- 
tinued to  turn  around.  Blissful  intoxication  !  And  she 
cried  and  laughed  at  the  same  time.  Her  teeth  and  her 
eyes  glistened  with  an  adorable  charm. 

When  we  had  calmed  down  a  little,  we  showed  her 
the  sights  of  the  poultry-yard,  where  the  magnificent 
peacock  (a  recent  arrival  also)  strutted  about  proudly 
in  the  sunshine,  spreading  out  its  tail  starred  with  eyes 
like  a  fan. 

My  uncle  calls  us.  They  are  going  to  the  carperie. 
"And  what  is  the  carperie ?"  "You  shall  see."  We 
set  out.  We  walk  across  the  fields.  I  point  out  to  her 
the  corn,  the  oats,  the  colzas,  the  pinks — for  of  all  this 
the  little  town-bred  girl  knew  nothing.  We  pass  the 
chateau,  walking  by  the  side  of  its  dry  moat,  where  this- 
tles, nettles,  and  dandelions  are  growing.  At  last  we 
reach  the  Carperiey  verdant  and  blooming  with  flowers. 
We  bury  ourselves  in  the  tall  grass  in  the  orchard,  where 
she  is  lost  to  sight  among  the  daisies. 

The  murmur  of  the  fountain  attracts  us.  The  green 
frogs  hop  in  the  basin  where  the  clean  water  bubbles  in 
the  sunshine,  for  the  apparatus  which  sends  the  jet  up- 
ward is  not  placed  directly  over  the  opening  of  the  spring. 
We  walk  among  the  clumps  of  rose-bushes,  meadow-sweet, 
and  snow-balls,  and  we  watch  the  carps  sporting  in  the 
ponds.  My  father  sets  playing  the  fountain  of  the  bath- 
ing-pavilion, the  one  that  rises  so  high  in  the  air — a 
fresh  delight  for  my  little  friend. 

Cries  are  heard  at  the  grating,  where  a  dozen  of  our 
little  playfellows  ask  permission  to  enter.  I  open  the 
gate  for  them,  and  we  get  up  a  party  of  hide-and-seek. 
We  run  into  the  dark  woods,  where  the  sun,  now  near 
his  decline,  darts  his  fiery  arrows  almost  horizontally 
through  the  branches.  We  hide  in  all  sorts  of  places, 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST.  83 

among  the  branches  of  the  leafy  nut-trees  ;  in  the  sheds 
where  are  kept  the  cross-bows  and  archery  sets  ;  among 
the  rose-bushes.  There  we  are  silent ;  we  keep  quite 
still,  scarcely  daring  to  breathe  when  we  hear  the  seekers 
passing  by.  Oh,  how  delightful  it  was  to  be  hidden 
there  so  safely  with  a  single  companion,  and  to  look  at 
each  other  with  wide-open  eyes,  a  little  frightened  at 
the  thought  of  being  caught. 

We  are  discovered.  We  jump  about  like  goats,  ut- 
tering crazy  shouts,  and  flights  of  birds,  frightened  at 
the  sound,  fly  away,  fluttering  their  wings,  to  hide  among 
the  branches. 

In  the  play  she  and  I  had  remained  for  a  long  time 
undiscovered  behind  the  laburnum-bower,  where  I  had 
heard  Ben^si  a  little  while  before  singing  his  vesper 
hymns.  In  this  retreat  we  lay  crouched  among  the  grass, 
whose  intense  green  made  her  cheeks,  rosy  with  childish 
excitement,  seem  redder  by  contrast.  Here  we  were 
completely  hidden  from  view  by  the  luxuriant  foliage. 
Beside  us  was  a  trench  whose  clear,  still  waters  abounded 
with  tangled  masses  of  vegetation.  Before  us,  on  the 
opposite  bank,  large  aquatic  plants,  with  broad  serrated 
leaves  of  a  pale-green  color,  displayed  their  flowers,  also 
of  a  pale  green,  that  sprang  from  long,  pointed  sheaths. 
Tall  umbelliferous  plants,  a  species  of  vegetation  ex- 
traordinarily long-lived  and  of  exquisite  delicacy,  raised 
high  their  parasol-like  flowers. 

There  we  were,  our  hearts  palpitating  in  the  midst 
of  this  exuberance  of  life.  As  she  had  been  running, 
her  face  was  suffused  with  a  light  moisture.  I  could 
hear  the  beating  of  her  heart.  Whenever  the  danger  of 
being  discovered  appeared  most  imminent,  we  would 
draw  more  closely  together. 

We  looked  at  each  other  with  frightened  glances,  in 
which  there  was  a  mixture  of  tenderness. 


84  THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 

No ;  we  had  not  been  discovered  !  The  steps  and 
the  voices  withdrew,  then  returned.  I  can  not  tell  how 
long  this  delightful  silence  lasted. 

Suddenly,  with  a  quick  gesture  she  pointed  out  to 
me,  close  beside  the  water,  not  two  steps  away,  and  half 
hidden  among  the  leaves,  a  bird's  nest — a  bird's  nest 
made  of  moss  and  twigs  gracefully  curved.  The  mother, 
with  half-spread  wings  and  little  nervous  movements, 
protecting  with  her  body  her  brood  of  fledglings,  watched 
us  with  eyes  fixed  with  terror. 

My  little  friend,  trembling  with  delight,  gets  up  and 
leans  over  to  obtain  a  better  view,  but  her  movement 
has  betrayed  us. 

The  mad  band  run  toward  us,  shouting  :  "  Here  they 
are  !  here  they  are  !  "  and  we  spring  from  our  hiding- 
place,  while  the  bird  darts  away  among  the  reeds,  utter- 
ing little  cries  of  terror. 


XXXIII. 

SHE  has  gone — leaving  an  indescribably  dreary  void 
behind  her.  Gone — taking  with  her  the  brightest  rays 
of  the  sun,  that  now  shines  with  a  pale  and  melancholy 
light  on  the  drooping  petals  of  the  flowers.  Even  little 
Emile  cried  this  morning,  for,  for  the  past  two  days  we 
have  all  been  under  her  spell,  taking  pleasure  in  nothing 
in  which  she  had  no  part. 

We  must  now  go  back  to  our  lessons  and  our  copy- 
books, sitting  on  those  odious  hair-cloth  tabourets  and  be 
content,  for  sole  amusement,  to  watch  Thasie's  chickens 
scratching  in  the  dung-hill,  and  her  pig  wallowing  in  the 
mire. 

Happily,   since   the   planting   of  the    Carperie,   my 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST.  35 

uncle,  who  is  often  called  in  that  direction,  makes  fre- 
quent absences,  and  we  are  left  much  more  to  ourselves 
than  formerly. 

About  ten  in  the  morning,  after  he  has  heard  our  les- 
sons and  mended  our  pens,  he  puts  on  his  yellow  cap, 
ornamented  with  spiral  stripes,  and  goes  down-stairs. 
We  can  hear  him  in  the  yard  giving  some  directions  to 
Joseph  or  Phillipine,  then  he  walks  across  the  garden 
with  firm  and  rapid  steps. 

We  watch  him  with  patient  glance  through  the  panes 
of  colored  glass  to  which  our  foreheads  are  already 
pressed.  At  the  end  of  the  walk,  that  terminates  in  a 
clematis-bower,  he  opens  the  door  which  leads  out  into 
the  fields  and  disappears  from  our  sight. 

The  wall  hides  him  from  view  for  a  minute  or  two. 
Then  we  see  again  the  yellow  cap  make  its  appearance, 
and  move  swiftly  along  among  the  corn  and  oats  beside 
the  moat  of  the  chateau. 

This  is  the  signal  of  release. 

6mile,  who  is  only  just  learning  his  letters,  is  the 
first  to  run  away.  Louis  and  I,  who  have  our  copies  to 
write,  hurriedly  scrawl  a  few  words  for  form's  sake, 
and  then  blunt  the  points  of  our  pens  which  refuse  to 
write,  so  of  course  we  can  not  go  on. 

Louis  darts  off  in  his  turn.  And  I  remain  behind  to 
give  myself  up  to  the  fascinating  occupation  of  rummag- 
ing in  forbidden  corners. 

Under  the  book-case  there  are  five  or  six  drawers, 
which  it  would  be  delightful  to  rummage.  There  are  there 
strange-looking  instruments  in  leathern  boxes  ;  rolls  of 
maps;  medals;  parchments  with  red  waxen  seals;  shells; 
spy-glasses ;  lenses ;  and,  what  interests  me  more  than  all 
the  rest,  color-boxes  for  painting  in  water  colors,  and  even 
bladders  containing  oil-colors ;  flasks  of  varnish  with  an 
odor  more  exquisite  than  that  of  flowers;  and,  finally, 


86  THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST. 

specimens  of  lithochromy — an  art  which  my  uncle,  who 
wanted  to  learn  a  little  of  everything,  had  practiced. 

My  heart  beating,  and  straining  my  ear  for  every 
sound,  with  what  agitation  of  mind  did  I  rummage 
among  all  these  cuiiosities  ! 

My  uncle  might  have  permitted  me  to  look  at  some 
of  these  things,  but  I  had  never  dared  ask  him,  so  sacred 
and  precious  did  they  seem  to  me.  I  almost  felt  as  if  I 
were  committing  a  sacrilege  in  touching  them  ;  as  if  I 
divined  the  multitude  of  arts  of  which  they  were  the 
humblest  emblems.  But  curiosity  soon  got  the  better 
of  respect.  I  carried  my  daring  so  far  as  to  handle 
some  of  the  objects.  I  tried  at  first,  on  the  back  of  my 
hand,  all  the  cakes  of  paint,  one  after  another.  Then  I 
painted  the  lid  of  the  box,  so  that  my  uncle  could  not 
open  it  again,  as  the  slide  would  not  work.  And  in  his 
innocent  simplicity  he  suspected  nothing ! 

I  would  also  prick  the  bladders  with  the  point  of  my 
penknife,  and  once,  one  of  them  bursting  open  in  my 
hands,  covered  my  fingers  with  Prussian  blue,  some  of 
which  fell  on  the  carpet.  How  frightened  I  was  ! 

What  if  my  uncle  were  to  return  unexpectedly?  I 
hurried  to  the  bake-house  to  wash  my  hands  with  sand, 
telling  Phillipine  that  I  had  stained  them  with  her  wash- 
ing-blue, and  then,  by  dint  of  sponging  the  carpet  with 
soap  and  water,  I  succeeded  at  last  in  effacing  the  stain. 

If  ray  uncle  returned  before  the  hour  of  recreation, 
we  would  hear  his  key  turning  in  the  lock  of  the  garden 
gate,  and  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  we  would  run  to 
seat  ourselves  at  our  desks  and  open  our  books.  He 
would  come  in  and  look  at  our  copy-books.  Then  we 
would  show  him  the  pens. 

Then,  before  going  away  again,  he  would  mend  five 
or  six  more,  and  then  each  of  us  had  to  write  his  page. 
We  would  hurry  and  scrawl  it  anyway.  We  had  orders 


THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST.  87 

to  remain  in  the  school-room  till  half-past  eleven  in  the 
morning  and  till  four  in  the  afternoon.  The  signal  of 
release,  long  awaited,  came  from  a  tall  clock  behind  the 
staircase.  By  leaning  over  the  banisters  I  could  touch 
its  case. 

But  it  happened  that  this  clock,  which  had  always 
kept  very  regular  time,  would  occasionally  hurry  forward 
wildly.  The  watchmaker  came  to  set  it  right  a  dozen 
times,  and  declared  at  last  that  it  was  beyond  his  skill. 
The  more  he  worked  at  it,  the  faster  it  went. 

Oh,  my  innocent  relatives  !  They  never  once  sus- 
pected that  it  was  I,  who,  contrariwise  to  Joshua, 
hastened  the  march  of  the  hours,  so  as  not  to  be  found 
fault  with,  if  my  uncle  were  to  return  unexpectedly. 


XXXIV. 

ANOTHER  of  the  forbidden  pleasures  which  I  used  to 
enjoy  with  my  heart  beating  at  the  sound  of  every  step 
on  the  stairs,  was,  also  during  my  uncle's  absence,  to 
turn  over  the  leaves  of  the  books  concealed  behind  the 
green  silk-lined  doors  of  the  book-case,  but  from  which 
their  owner,  in  his  unsuspecting  trust,  had  neglected  to 
withdraw  the  keys.  The  five  or  six  compartments  con- 
tained rows  of  very  handsome  volumes,  all  bound  in  calf. 
There  were  in  these  books  a  number  of  fine  engravings, 
some  steel  engravings  even,  so  fine  that  it  was  necessary 
to  look  at  them  very  closely  to  distinguish  the  strokes. 
The  illustrations  by  the  younger  Moreau  of  Voltaire's 
romances,  those  of  La  Pucelle,  for  instance,  awoke  in  me 
strange  emotions,  and  plunged  me  into  profound  reveries. 

I  soon  had  more  leisure  to  devote  to  these  stolen 
pleasures,  for  my  uncle,  who  still  continued  his  walks  to 


88  THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

the  garden  on  the  marsh,  spent  a  good  deal  of  his  time 
also  in  the  unfinished  parlor,  where,  for  several  weeks, 
he  had  been  giving  singing-lessons  to  some  young  girls. 
He  taught  them  canticles,  first  for  the  planting  of  a 
Calvary  which  my  father  was  going  to  erect  in  a  corner 
of  the  cemetery,  and  afterward  for  other  occasions. 

I  could  hear  these  songs  distinctly,  as  the  large  par- 
lor was  directly  under  our  school-room. 

Those  fresh  voices  coming  from  below  had  an  inex- 
pressible charm  for  me. 

In  my  mind  there  was  a  mysterious  association  be- 
tween them  and  the  figures  in  the  engravings,  which 
seemed  animated  by  a  supernatural  life.  This  fantastic 
idea  produced  a  delightful  agitation  in  me. 

One  of  these  pictures  initiated  me  into  the  cruelties 
of  which  men  were  capable,  and  opened  before  my  mind 
a  vista  of  anguish  hitherto  unknown.  It  represented  a 
row  of  negro  slaves  bound  and  fastened  together  by  a 
sort  of  ladder,  which  rested  heavily  on  their  shoulders, 
and  between  the  rungs  of  which  their  heads  passed. 

They  walked,  thus  impeded,  bending  beneath  its 
weight,  and  groaning  under  the  pitiless  lash  of  their 
overseer.  It  was  horrible  ! 

When  I  heard  the  languishing  voices  of  the  young 
girls  in  the  room  below,  it  seemed  to  me  that  those  poor 
negroes  uttered  wails  and  moved  their  legs  automatical- 
ly ;  or  I  would  fancy  I  heard  the  supplications  of  angels 
imploring  Heaven  to  end  their  torment.  My  heart  was 
filled  with  boundless  pity.  From  contemplation  I  passed 
into  a  state  of  ecstasy.  The  unhappy  slaves  writhed 
with  ever-increasing  anguish,  and  I  could  hear  their 
groans  in  monotonous  cadence  with  the  voices  of  the 

singers  below : 

"Venez  divin  Messie, 
Sauvez  nos  jours  infortunes  !  .  .  , 
Venez  !  venez  !  venez  !  " 


THE   LIFE  OF   AN   ARTIST. 


XXXV. 

I  OFTEN  went  to  visit  Cousin  Catharine,  the  old 
woman  with  the  sickle,  whom  you  already  know. 

Her  little  farm  adjoined  our  grounds. 

I  admired  the  rustic  simplicity  of  the  old  dwelling  : 
its  narrow  yard,  where  lay  about  various  articles  per- 
taining to  agriculture ;  the  majestic  appearance  of  the 
tall  gate  of  the  barn,  which  only  opened,  with  prolonged 
creaking,  at  the  time  of  the  harvest. 

I  loved  the  mystery  of  this  dark  barn  ;  the  pungent 
vapors  that  issued  from  the  stable  when  the  bright  sun- 
light entered  it,  while  the  cows  rested  peacefully  in  the 
shadow  lighted  up  by  golden  gleams. 

I  loved  the  kitchen  with  its  wide,  dark  fireplace, 
where  the  broth  for  the  animals  boiled,  diffusing  an  odor 
of  herbs  through  the  whole  house  ;  its  window  with  its 
little  panes  of  greenish  glass  ;  and  its  clock,  with  its  high 
oaken  case  and  its  monotonous  tick,  tick  ;  and  finally  its 
dresser,  studded  with  shining  brass  nails,  where  were 
displayed  all  the  modest  crockery  and  brass  pots  of  the 
household. 

But,  above  all,  I  loved  old  Catharine  herself,  the 
good  genius  of  this  peaceful  retreat. 

I  have  only  a  faint  recollection  of  Cousin  Zidore, 
her  husband,  one  of  the  few  men  I  had  seen  wearing 
the  queue,  knee-breeches,  and  shoes  with  silver  buckles. 
His  head  covered  with  a  white  cotton  cap,  a  tranquil 
smile  upon  his  face,  he  spent  almost  all  his  time  dozing 
in  his  straw  arm-chair.  During  his  brief  waking  mo- 
ments he  plaited  dachoires  (whips)  for  me.  This  is  all  I 
can  remember  of  him,  except  that  he  was  wrinkled  with 
age. 


go  THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST. 

One  day  godmother  said  to  me  :  "  Your  Cousin  Zi- 
dore  is  dead ;  he  will  make  no  more  clachoires  for  you." 
And  I  pictured  him  to  myself  like  the  little  birds  I  found 
lying  on  the  ground,  stiff  and  motionless,  eaten  up  by 
the  ants. 

This  event  made  me  feel  a  sort  of  terror,  and  espe- 
cially their  putting  him  into  a  hole  in  the  earth  while 
the  bells  tolled. 

Cousin  Catharine,  small  and  still  active,  although  she 
was  bent  double  by  age  and  by  the  rude  labors  of  the 
fields,  was  always  singing  and  smiling. 

She  was  all  love,  the  good  old  woman  ! 

When  she  looked  at  you,  her  gray  eyes  sparkled  with 
tenderness  beneath  her  gray  eyebrows  and  the  rebellious 
locks  of  her  gray  hair  that  escaped  from  under  her  cap 
of  dazzling  whiteness.  What  a  kind  expression  rested 
on  her  face,  seamed  with  wrinkles,  the  mouth  protrud- 
ing, as  if  to  kiss  and  be  kissed,  for  time,  which  had  worn 
her  teeth  without  causing  them  to  drop  out,  had  brought 
her  nose  and  chin  close  together,  without  making  her 
lips,  which  curved  outward,  recede.  Her  knotty,  square- 
nailed  fingers  clasped  mine  with  a  friendly  pressure. 
She  was  always  gay,  and  yet  she  had  known  hard  times. 

In  fine  weather  she  spent  whole  hours  seated  at  her 
front  door  knitting,  or  at  the  threshold  of  the  kitchen, 
spinning.  I  think  I  can  still  hear  the  sound  of  her 
wheel.  On  stormy  evenings  she  and  I  would  watch  the 
clouds,  as  they  formed  themselves  into  fantastic  shapes 
of  animals  and  human  beings,  which  would  change  the 
next  moment  into  other  shapes.  These  eternal  images 
of  the  sky,  among  which  Catharine  had  once  seen  my 
mother,  caused  me  an  indescribable  emotion.* 

*  The  peasants,  in  their  picturesque  speech,  call  these  flaming 
clouds  storm-flowers. 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST.  91 

I  went  too,  occasionally,  a  little  farther  on,  to  the 
farm  of  Jean  L ,  at  the  end  of  the  village. 

Jean  L and  his  wife  Augustine,  a  childless 

couple,  were  farmers  who  enjoyed  an  honest  compe- 
tence, and  who  remained  to  the  end  faithful  friends  of 
my  family. 

They  were  both  at  this  time  nearing  forty.  The 
wife  was  a  little  older  than  the  husband,  a  thing  which 
is  not  rare  in  our  village. 

They  resembled  each  other  as  much  as  if  they  were 
brother  and  sister.  The  faces  of  both  were  round,  like 
the  full  moon,  the  husband's  was  always  smiling  ;  the 
wife's  always  laughing.  The  one  was  always  gay  and 
sprightly,  the  other  always  serene. 

Jean  L spoke  slowly,  never  raising  his  voice  on 

any  occasion  whatsoever.  The  peasants  said  of  him, 
"  He  is  a  man  who  thinks  slowly." 

His  conversation  was  not  wanting,  however,  in  a  cer- 
tain amusing  charm.  He  told  of  his  fits  of  anger,  which 
no  one  had  ever  witnessed  except  himself,  in  the  same 
tone  in  which  he  would  have  spoken  of  his  gentlest  emo- 
tions. 

His  picturesque  turns  of  speech  were  strangely  com- 
ical, from  the  contrast  between  the  vigor  of  the  words 
he  used  and  the  calmness  with  which  he  pronounced 
them. 

In  no  wise  inquisitive,  he  was  never  surprised  at  any- 
thing. 

Madame  Jean  L it  was  who  first  took  me  to  see 

the  Torgeos. 

Having  occasion  to  speak  to  the  miller,  she  took  me 
one  day  with  her,  for  the  famous  beast  was  a  windmill, 
a  fulling-mill — Pan,  pan,  pan  ! — pan,  pan,  pan  !  This  I 
discovered  in  my  journey  to  Lille. 

How  many  Torgeos  I  had  heard  there ! 


92  THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

The  vague  feeling  of  terror  with  which  it  inspired 
me  still  clung  to  me,  however,  and  I  could  not  approach 
it  without  strong  emotion. 

We  went  there  through  the  fields  along  a  little  path 
winding  among  the  hay-stacks.  This  walk  has  remained 
in  my  memory  as  one  of  the  most  romantic  excursions 
of  my  childhood,  like  the  journey  to  St.  Druon.  There 
I  made  closer  acquaintance  with  the  pretty  blue  beetles 
that  flew  against  my  face  in  the  garden  when  I  was  very 
small,  and  which  I  picked  up  from  the  ground  where 
they  had  fallen,  to  play  with. 

Fie  !  What  filthy  habits  I  discovered  in  them  !  I 
was  disgusted  with  them  forever  afterward. 

But  was  not  this  Torgeos  indeed  an  animal  ?  Was  it 
not  an  immense  beetle  with  its  four  half -transparent, 
half-opaque  wings  ?  With  what  a  terrifying  sound  they 
creaked  in  the  wind  ! 

And  then  how  loud  sounded  this  noise  close  by,  that 
I  had  before  heard  only  from  a  distance — Pan,  pan,  pan  ! 
pan,  pan,  pan  ! 

It  was  always  Jean  L ,  who  drove  us  in  his  rustic 

vehicle  to  the  Ducasse  at  F . 

Early  in  the  morning,  from  my  uncle's  balcony,  we 

could  see  Madame  Jean  L getting  the  vehicle  ready. 

She  spread  fresh  straw  on  the  floor,  placed  seats  for  us, 
and  arranged  over  hoops  the  white  cloth  that  was  to 
protect  us  from  the  sun. 

We  followed  with  happy  glances  these  preparations 
which  promised  us  a  day  of  unusual  pleasure. 

Jean  L harnessed  the  gray  mare — l<  the  carriage- 
horse  " — and  the  colt,  "  the  farm-horse,"  and  we  took 
our  seats  on  the  chairs  and  settled  our  feet  among  the 
straw. 

Then  the  equipage,  swaying  from  side  to  side,  was 
started  with  some  difficulty  (the  roads  at  that  time  were 


THE   LIFE   OF   AN  ARTIST. 


93 


not  very  smooth),  and  set  off  at  an  easy  pace,  in  har- 
mony with  the  chaiacter  of  the  phlegmatic  driver. 

One  by  one  the  houses  of  the  village  were  left  behind, 
and  then  the  long  rows  of  hay-stacks  from  which  the 
mist  was  slowly  rising  under  the  influence  of  the  morn- 
ing sun. 

Through  this  mist  appeared,  far  in  the  distance, 
other  villages — Henin,  Dourges,  Noyelles,  Harnes,  Fou- 
quieres. 

Above  the  thatched  roofs  and  red  tiles  could  be  seen 
the  shining  slate  and  glazed  tiled  roofs  of  the  houses  of 
the  wealthier  inhabitants. 

We  were  told  the  names  of  these,  and  learned  how 
their  fortunes  had  been  made. 

The  load  stretched  far  away  in  the  distance,  seeming 
endless.  We  drove  on  and  on. 

At  last  F appears  in  sight. 

Leaving  the  high-road  we  enter  an  alley  bordered  by 
tall  poplars  and  soon  reach  the  farm-house  of  Monsieur 
D ,  our  host,  a  real  farm-house,  whose  two  high  pigeon- 
houses  we  had  for  some  time  past  perceived  rising  above 
the  trees.  These  stood  side  by  side  with  the  belfry 
tower  with  which  they  struggled  for  pre-eminence,  the 
one  emerging  from  the  leafy  trees  of  the  orchard,  the 
others  from  among  the  broad  roofs  of  the  barns. 

On  our  arrival  the  gate  was  opened  admitting  us  into 
a  large,  light  yard,  where  the  sun  shone  golden  on  the 
dung-hills,  and  swarming  with  poultry — turkeys  with 
mottled  feathers,  proud  peacocks,  hens,  cocks,  and 
guinea-hens. 

Pigeons  flocked  upon  the  roof,  circling  around  the 
pigeon-houses,  and  dropping  showers  of  their  feathers 
into  the  puddle. 

Geese,  noisy  and  threatening-looking,  came  up  to  us 
and  plucked  at  our  trousers. 


94 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 


More  hospitable  than  these  their  master  stood  with 
a  friendly  smile  upon  his  countenance,  waiting  to  re- 
ceive us  on  the  threshold,  surrounded  by  his  wife  and 
sons.  Embraces  were  exchanged.  We  then  went  to 
the  dining-room,  the  walls  of  which  were  hung  with 
views  of  Lyons  and  of  the  wharves  of  the  Rh6ne  and 
Seine,  crowded  with  boats  and  people.  We  found  some 
of  the  guests  there,  who  had  arrived  before  us.  Others 
came  later  on  in  cars,  covered  like  ours,  in  coaches  and 
in  cabriolets.  They  were  a  mixed  company — some 
wealthy  farmers,  a  doctor,  two  elegant  young  men  from 

Douai,  friends  of  D 's  sons,  a  veterinary  surgeon,  an 

unfrocked  priest  who  swore  like  a  trooper,  and,  finally,  the 

cur£  of  F ,  the  Rabelais  of  the  village,  who  published 

stupid  and  indecent  pamphlets  against  his  church, 
possessing  none  of  the  genius  of  his  master's  works,  but 
surpassing  them  in  grossness. 

The  repast,  consisting  as  with  us  of  fifteen  or  eight- 
een dishes,  lasted  from  two  o'clock  until  evening. 

But  as  soon  as  we  children  had  satisfied  our  appetites 
we  left  the  table,  to  which  we  returned  only  for  a  mo- 
ment when  the  champagne  made  its  appearance. 

While  the  grown  people  ate  and  drank,  we  ran  de- 
lightedly from  corner  to  corner  of  the  farm,  where  no 
one  was  at  the  time  to  be  seen ;  we  jumped  on  the  heaps 
of  grain  in  the  barns,  where  we  found  the  stable-boys 
sleeping  off  the  effects  of  their  gin. 

We  went  to  the  orchard  to  shake  down  the  ripe  mul- 
berries, at  times  staining  our  clean  shirts  with  their  juice. 
We  ran  after  the  peacocks,  to  pluck  feathers  from  their 
tails,  which  we  hid  under  the  straw  of  our  car. 

When  we  went  into  the  parlor  at  twilight  the  guests 
were  excited  with  wine,  and  noisy  discussions  were 
going  on.  The  unfrocked  priest  was  swearing  more 
loudly  than  ever.  The  sons  of  D were  quarreling 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST.  ge 

among  themselves,  while  their  father  preserved,  amid  all 
this  confusion,  his  patriarchal  gravity,  for  he  was  a  little 
old  man  with  white  hair,  who  never  lost  his  dignity, 
although  like  Abraham  he  had  married  his  servant — 
whom,  however,  he  had  not  sent  away. 

As  for  our  friend  Jean  L ,  the  man  who  "  thought 

slowly,"  he  appeared  as  tranquil  as  when  we  had  set  out 
in  the  morning,  only,  when  he  went  to  the  kitchen  to 
light  his  pipe  at  the  chafing-dish,  we  noticed  that  his 
gait  was  a  little  unsteady. 

We  returned  home  in  the  evening.  My  father  and 
my  uncle  exchanged  their  impressions  of  the  visit,  while 
we  children,  tired  with  running  about  all  day,  leaned 
back  in  our  seats,  thinking  dreamily  of  our  beautiful  pea- 
cocks' feathers,  and  watching,  with  sleepy  eyes,  the  tall 
poplars  that  stood  like  phantoms  at  either  side  of  the 
road,  disappearing  one  by  one  in  the  darkness. 


XXXVI. 

THE  day  for  the  planting  of  the  Calvary  arrived. 
The  crucifix  was  waiting  ready  in  our  house.  We  were 
struck  by  the  beauty  of  the  countenance,  which  formed 
a  contrast  to  the  defaced  and  ugly  features  of  the  saints 
in  the  church.  A  painter  had  come  from  Lille  to  color 
it — a  pale  man  with  long  hair,  who  caused  Fremy  to 
descend  considerably  in  my  estimation.  And  then,  in- 
stead of  painting  the  flesh  of  a  uniform  red  color,  he 
was  able  to  variegate  it  with  blue  veins,  and  to  blend 
the  tints  in  it  with  finished  skill. 

From  the  wound  in  the  side  he  had  marie  three 
drops  of  water  and  three  drops  of  blood  gush  forth. 
My  uncle  reminded  him  that  the  blood  and  the  water 


96  THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

should  be  mixed  together.  He  made  the  necessary 
change,  praising  my  uncle's  perspicacity.  All  great 
artists  are  modest !  It  was  a  slow  business,  this  erec- 
tion of  the  Calvary,  and  one  which  was  not  carried 
through  without  some  difficulty. 

In  the  village,  indeed,  no  one  could  carry  out  any 
undertaking  without  having  obstacles  thrown  in  his 
way. 

First,  the  question  of  the  costume  of  the  girls  who 
were  to  sing  was  discussed.  The  white  frock  was  unani- 
mously accepted ;  but  when  my  uncle  proposed,  in 
addition,  a  black  sash,  because  the  ceremony  should  be 
given  something  of  a  mourning  character,  a  lively  oppo- 
sition was  raised  by  the  feminine  flock.  They  all  wanted 
a  blue  sash.  My  uncle  held  his  ground,  and  insisted 
upon  the  black.  This  resulted  in  a  great  many  seces- 
sions from  the  choir.  The  prettiest  girl,  and  also  the 
one  who  was  most  coquettish,  left,  and  never  returned. 
Then  there  was  another  annoyance.  One  of  the  female 
singers  had  a  voice  like  that  of  a  man,  which,  in  the 
opinion  of  her  companions,  spoiled  the  singing.  She 
was  excluded.  Thence  sprang  pangs  of  wounded  vanity, 
which  extended  to  the  lovers  and  relations  of  the 
principal  parties  concerned. 

The  whole  village  took  up  the  quarrel. 

The  effects  of  all  this  were  soon  apparent.  Thus 
the  band  of  the  firemen,  who  were  to  play  some  funeral 
marches  at  the  ceremony,  stirred  up  by  the  lover  of  the 
pretty  coquette  who  had  withdrawn  from  the  choir,  re- 
belled and  refused  to  play.  This  insignificant  occur- 
rence was  the  source  of  innumerable  vexations  to  my 
family  later  on. 

And  all  because  of  their  solicitude  for  the  public 
good. 

From  this  time  forward,  there  did  not  pass  a  single  day 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 


97 


in  which  I  did  not  hear  them  complain  of  the  ignorance, 
the  stupidity,  and  the  base  envy  of  some  one  or  other 
of  the  villagers. 

I  must  hasten  to  add,  however,  that  the  great  major- 
ity always  showed  their  appreciation  of  them. 


XXXVII. 

I  WAS  about  eight  years  old  when  my  father  took  me 
with  him  in  one  of  his  journeys  to  Regnauville,  a  little 
village  in  the  neighborhood  of  Hesdin,  situated  on  the 
borders  of  the  forest  of  Labroye. 

This  forest,  a  vast  and  magnificent  domain,  belonged 
to  the  Duke  of  Duras,  whose  manager  and  steward  my 
father  was,  as  I  have  already  said.  The  recollection  of 
this  visit  remains  in  my  mind  like  a  distant  dream  of  a 
long  and  sunny  holiday 

At  Sens  we  visited  my  grand-aunt  Platel,  the  widow 
of  a  notary  of  that  name,  my  mother's  uncle.  The 
impression  she  gave  me  was  that  of  a  great  lady,  very 
old  and  very  dignified. 

The  only  other  recollection  I  retain  of  my  visit  is 
that  of  a  very  talkative  parrot  with  a  red  tail,  which  must 
still  be  living  ;  and  three  terra-cotta  figures,  painted  after 
nature,  which  stood  at  the  end  of  a  long  garden — two 
beggars,  a  woman  carrying  a  basket  on  her  back,  and  a 
man  with  a  crust  of  bread  in  the  pocket  of  his  coat  ; 
and  a  hunter  eternally  taking  aim  at  a  hare  which  he 
never  hit. 

The  house,  too,  was  old,  and  all  the  trees  in  the  gar- 
den were  old. 

I  was  standing  with  my  father  in  my  aunt's  little  yard, 
when  I  perceived  at  the  window  of  one  of  the  rooms  a 
7 


98  THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 

man  of  immense  height,  almost  a  giant,  who  wore  a  green 
uniform  with  silver  buttons,  ornamented  with  silver  braid. 
He  laughed  down  at  me  from  where  he  stood  a  good-na- 
tured, noisy  laugh,  stretching  his  mouth  from  ear  to  ear, 
and  showing  all  his  teeth. 

"  Have  no  fear,"  my  father  said  to  me  ;  "  he  is  a 
faithful  servant,  who  will  love  ycu  dearly,  and  you  will 
sleep  at  his  house  while  at  Regnauville.  He  is  my  chief 
forester.  His  name  is  Bonaventure." 

I  do  not  know  why  he  had  come  to  meet  us. 

We  set  out  in  the  stage-coach  at  a  quick  pace,  the 
horses  shaking  their  manes. 

Oh,  how  buoyant  the  air  was!  And  what  a  long 
and  delightful  drive  ! 

What  ever-fresh  transports,  as  the  massive  wheels 
rolled  along,  across  vast  plains,  over  white  and  dusty 
roads,  that  every  instant  seemed  to  stop  short  at  the  sky, 
as  if  the  earth  came  to  an  end  there  !  Soon  we  passed 
mountain  after  mountain,  village  after  village,  these  lat- 
ter seeming  in  the  distance  like  groves,  so  completely 
hidden  were  their  mossy  roofs  and  slated  spires  among 
trees  on  whose  dark  foliage  the  light  and  shadow  played. 

Beggars  came  to  meet  us  at  the  entrance  to  every  vil- 
lage where  we  stopped,  holding  out  their  ragged  felt 
hats,  and  asking  alms  in  a  whining  tone.  We  changed 
horses,  with  loud  clanking  of  chains,  at  inns  .like  farm- 
houses, where  we  dined  hastily,  surrounded  by  chickens, 
who  picked  up  the  crumbs  as  they  fell  from  the  bare 
table.  We  saw  things  we  had  never  seen  before  :  wonder- 
ful sign-boards,  strange  deformities,  and  sunshine — sun- 
shine everywhere — burning  up  the  meadows,  filtering 
through  .the  branches,  clinging  to  the  roofs,  casting  on 
the  streets  great  splashes  of  light,  gliding,  glowing,  dis- 
appearing, and  shining,  reflected  back  from  every  pool 
with  dazzling  brightness. 


THE   LIFE   OF   AN  ARTIST.  gg 

Large  pigeon-houses  of  brick  and  white  stone,  like 
enormous  bee-hives,  around  which  pigeons  fluttered  in- 
cessantly, raised  their  heavy  square  masses  into  the  air, 
and  were  reflected,  with  their  spotted  tiles  and  grimac- 
ing weathercocks,  in  the  dark  puddles,  into  which  the 
feathers  fluttered  in  a  shower,  and  where  innumerable 
ducks  paddled  about. 

Inhabited  by  poor  wood-cutters,  Regnauville  was  at 
that  time  a  very  small  and  unpretentious  village,  situated 
near  the  high-road,  and  consisting  of  a  few  rows  of 
straw-thatched  houses  shaded  by  fruit-trees  whose  roots 
were  hidden  in  the  grass.  Scarcely  taller  than  these 
cabins,  the  sort  of  pigeon-house  or  barn  which  served  at 
once  as  church  and  belfry,  was  also  covered  by  an  old, 
dark-thatched  roof,  dotted  with  green  moss,  and  bloom- 
ing with  spreading  plants, 

As  humble  as  these  buildings  was  the  little  cemetery 
that  surrounded  them. 

The  parsonage  behind,  shaded  by  a  clump  of  elms, 
did  not  disturb  this  rustic  harmony.  There  was  nothing 
to  distinguish  it  from  the  thatched  cottages  around. 

In  it  three  old  men  passed  their  peaceful  existence  : 
the  cure"  ;  his  brother,  formerly  a  Professor  of  Philosophy ; 
and  their  servant,  whose  name,  it  is  needless  to  say,  was 
Marie. 

Bonaventure's  house,  the  last  in  the  village,  a  pretty 
little  farm-house,  very  white  and  very  neat,  roofed,  unlike 
the  other  houses  with  red  tiles,  from  its  gable  window 
commanded  a  view  of  the  tall  forest  that,  like  a  straight, 
dark  curtain,  stretched,  six  or  eight  hundred  yards  away, 
across  the  horizon. 

In  front  of  the  house  was  a  square  building,  a  de- 
pendence of  the  domain  of  Labroye,  which  contained  a 
rather  large  hall  for  the  sale  of  the  wood,  and  my 
father's  office  and  bedroom.  Yellow  roses  covered  its 


IOo  THE   LIFE   OF   AN  ARTIST. 

walls.  It  was  separated  from  the  street  by  a  railing, 
back  of  which  was  a  garden  opening  into  the  fields. 

When  she  welcomed  us  on  our  arrival,  I  observed 
that  Madame  Bonaventure  was  a  woman  of  enormous 
size,  about  fifty  years -old,  but  very  active,  and  that  her 
frank,  bright  eyes  lighted  up  a  large  face  with  massive 
features. 

The  Bonaventures  had  no  children,  but  my  glance 
fell  with  pleasure  on  a  young  niece  who  lived  with  them. 
She  was  called  Antoinette. 

She  took  me  by  the  hand,  led  me  up  a  short,  steep, 
narrow  staircase,  opened  a  door,  and  said  to  me :  "  This 
is  your  room  ;  I  am  to  take  charge  of  you  ;  if  you  need 
anything  during  the  night,  call  me.  I  shall  be  close  by." 

The  arrival  of  my  father  at  Regnauville  was  always 
an  event.  The  house  was  soon  filled  with  people — 
wood-cutters,  wood-venders,  guards,  people  who  came 
to  make  complaints  and  beg  indulgence. 

Fatigued  with  the  journey,  we  went  to  bed  early. 
Antoinette  tucked  me  up  in  the  bedclothes,  kissed  me, 
and  I  soon  fell  sound  asleep. 


XXXVIII. 

ON  the  following  morning,  when  I  opened  my  eyes, 
still  heavy  with  sleep,  I  felt  a  sort  of  languor,  which  was 
a  reminder,  rather  than  a  remnant  of  fatigue,  just  suffi- 
cient to  make  me  appreciate  the  better  the  rest  which  I 
was  then  enjoying. 

In  this  state  of  semi-consciousness,  which  I  made  no 
effort  to  shake  off,  confused  ideas,  having  no  connec- 
tion with  the  events  of  the  day  before,  floated  through 
my  brain. 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST.  IOI 

I  thought  myself  still  at  home,  and  I  expected  to 
hear  at  any  moment  the  sound  of  my  uncle's  step  in 
the  room,  and  the  noise  of  his  razor  and  his  soap,  but 
he  did  not  come.  Was  it  because  he  was  lazy,  like 
me  ? 

But  the  silence  was  more  profound  than  usual,  and 
the  noises  by  which  it  was  interrupted  were  unfamiliar. 
The  cocks,  heard  at  rare  intervals,  crowed  a  little  differ- 
ently. I  opened  my  eyes.  I  was  surprised  not  to  see 
the  bunches  of  daisies  on  the  carpet.  ,  Jfien  I  remem- 
bered everything.  J/ 

I  recalled  with  delight  the  incidents  of  the  journey. 
I  tasted  in  anticipation  the  new  delights  that  awaited 
me. 

My  first  glance  fell  on  the  muslin  curtains  of  my 
bed,  curtains  of  a  lilac  color  and  with  a  pattern  in 
which  two  scenes  repeated  each  other  alternately ;  the 
one  an  old  cure  mounted  on  a  donkey,  to  whom  a  maid- 
servant was  handing  a  cup  of  milk;  the  other  the  same 
cure  for  whom  the  same  servant  was  placing  a  chair  to 
enable  him  to  dismount  from  his  saddle. 

In  places  the  folds  of  the  curtains  gave  these  figures 
a  curiously  grotesque  appearance,  compressing  or  dis- 
torting them. 

The  little  room  was  all  white,  with  whitewashed 
walls,  and,  although  the  window  was  a  very  small  one, 
extremely  bright.  A  shower  of  sunbeams  streamed  in, 
falling  on  the  lower  part  of  the  door  and  on  the  floor, 
brushing  my  pillow  and  dancing  on  the  walls — a  shower 
of  sunbeams  so  glorious  that  they  seemed  to  know  that 
they  were  lighting  a  Sunday  and  the  Ducasse  of  Regnau- 
ville. 

But  a  quick,  light  step  mounts  the  stairs,  and  An- 
toinette knocks  at  my  door,  calling  out,  "  Lazy  little 
fellow  !  " 


102  THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 

She  opens  the  door,  and  I  behold  the  young  girl,  her 
teeth  glistening  and  her  hair  and  face  reddened  .by  the 
light,  in  which  her  eyes,  like  those  of  a  bird,  sparkle  mis- 
chievously. 

She  leans  over  me  and  begins  to  tickle  me  vigorously, 
with  merry  bursts  of  laughter,  while  I  leap  on  the  bed 
like  a  trout,  drawing  with  me  in  my  struggles,  the  cure, 
the  donkey,  and  the  servant,  who  dance  about  with  every 
movement  of  the  curtain. 

And  she  devours  me  with  kisses,  like  a  joyous  young 
mother,  while  she  continues  to  tickle  me. 

Then  she  straightens  herself  up  in  the  sunlight,  and 
her  red  hair  seems  on  fire,  like  a  flaming  distaff. 

Then,  when  she  has  put  on  my  stockings,  I  jump  out 
of  bed,  dress  myself,  and  run  to  join  my  father  in  his 
room,  where  the  yellow  roses  seem  to  shine  with  re- 
doubled brightness.  I  find  him  very  happy  ;  here  he 
is  completely  in  his  element. 

On  my  way  to  church,  where  we  went  after  break- 
fast, 1  could  observe  at  my  leisure  the  humble  cottages 
which  I  had  only  been  able  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  on  the 
day  before,  as  we  drove  along  the  road. 

The  church  seemed  to  me  very  small,  gloomy,  and 
bare.  With  the  exception  of  two  chairs,  placed  for  us 
beside  the  choir,  it  contained  nothing  but  wooden 
benches. 

The  cure,  a  feeble  little  old  man  whose  delicate  face 
was  surmounted  by  white  locks,  under  which  his  black 
eyes  appeared  still  blacker,  greeted  us  with  a  friendly 
smile. 

We  were  to  dine  at  his  house. 

The  sermon  which  he  preached  to  his  parishioners 
was  in  substance  as  follows  : 

"  My  dear  children,  I  shall  not  detain  you  long.  To- 
day is  the  Ducasse,  and  each  one  of  you  should  have  his 


THE   LIFE   OF   AN    ARTIST.  103 

Ducassier.*  I  have  mine,  Monsieur  Breton,  whom  you 
love  because,  as  you  know,  he  is  the  friend  of  the  poor. 
Enjoy  yourselves.  God  does  not  prohibit  innocent 
pleasure.  Dance  as  much  as  you  please.  I  shall  go  to 
the  ball  to  see  you  ;  but  do  not  forget  that  God  disap- 
proves of  couples  wandering  away  alone  into  the  forest, 
especially  at  night." 

The  dinner  at  the  cure's  was  very  gay  and  friendly. 
Poor  as  the  parsonage  looked,  it  was  not  bare  of  every- 
thing. An  ancient  wine-cellar,  which  was  opened  only 
on  great  occasions,  contained  an  onion-wine  almost  as 
old  as  its  owner. 

My  father  had  an  inexhaustible  fund  of  anecdotes, 
which  he  related  with  an  animation  and  naturalness  that 
made  the  old  man  laugh  until  the  tears  came.  They 
discussed  the  affairs  of  the  place.  Things  were  going 
badly  in  the  household  of  the  mayor,  and  my  father 
would  do  well  to  set  them  straight.  Monsieur  So-and- 
so  and  Monsieur  So-and-so  were  at  daggers  drawn  on 
account  of  a  certain  hedge,  and  the  like. 

The  cure*  was  a  simple,  easy  man,  enlightened  ar»d 
tolerant  in  his  views.  His  brother  under  his  cotton 
cap  concealed  solid  learning  and  an  independence  of 
judgment  formed,  according  to  what  my  uncle  said,  by 
reading  the  philosophers  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

We  took  coffee  in  the  garden,  which  Prise"  would 
have  thought  greatly  neglected.  Everything  there  grew 
as  Nature  willed,  and  the  wild  eglantine  climbed  unhin- 
dered up  the  unpruned  pear-trees.  Innumerable  plants 
grew  together  in  confusion  in  the  flower-beds.  Secular 
box-trees  spread  themselves  out  in  gigantic  pdques,  and 
the  sun  streamed  through  the  glass  roofs  of  the  bee- 
hives upon  the  swarming  bees  within. 

*  Patron  of  the  festival. 


104  THE   LIFE  OF  AN 

In  the  afternoon  my  father  gave  audience  to  a  great 
many  people  in  his  office,  while  I  chatted  with  Antoinette, 
who  took  me  to  see  the  cow,  the  horse,  and  the  pig,  to 
which  latter  she  spoke  as  if  it  were  a  human  being. 

In  the  distance  could  be  heard  the  sounds  of  the 
violin  and  the  clarionet  playing  for  the  dancers,  among 
whom,  after  what  he  had  said,  I  saw  in  imagination  the 
cure. 

From  Bonaventure's  door  I  perceived  to  the  left  the 
village  en  fete,  bathed  in  a  clear  white  light,  while  to  the 
right,  somber  and  impenetrable,  stretched  the  curtain  of 
the  silent  and  mysterious  forest. 


XXXIX. 

ON  the  following  day  the  same  awakening,  the  same 
excess  of  sunshine  in  my  little  chamber,  the  same  rosy 
apparition  of  the  young  girl,  the  same  merry  sport. 

We  breakfasted  hastily  and  were  soon  on  our  way  to 
the  forest,  my  father  chatting  with  Bonaventure,  and  I 
running  and  jumping  over  the  pebbles  that  lay  in  heaps 
beside  the  graveled  path. 

My  father  explained  to  me  their  use,  and  profited  by 
this  occasion  to  speak  to  me  of  the  stone  hatchets  em- 
ployed, before  iron  was  known,  by  our  ancestors,  who 
dwelt  in  forests  such  as  that  which  I  am  going  to  see. 

The  forest !  There  it  was,  seeming  to  rise  from  the 
confused  shrubbery  on  its  borders  higher  and  higher 
into  the  sky  with  every  step  we  took.  All  at  once  its 
vast,  shadowy  naves,  lighted  up  by  sudden  flashes, 
opened  before  us — a  sublime  and  awe-inspiring  sight  to 
a  child  who  had  hitherto  seen  only  the  tender  verdure 
of  willow  and  alder  groves. 


THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 


105 


The  coolness,  like  that  of  a  church,  the  strange 
odors,  the  night-like  silence,  the  obscurity,  through 
which,  at  times,  flashed  dazzling  gleams  of  light,  and 
the  solemn  and  mysterious  sense  of  awe  inspired  by  all 
this,  as  if  one  felt  here  the  invisible  presence  of  the 
Deity,  filled  me  with  a  poignant  pleasure  mingled  with 
a  secret  fear. 

At  regular  intervals  a  sort  of  wail  reached  us,  the 
notes  of  a  distant  cuckoo,  uttering  its  melancholy 
plaint. 

Close  beside  us,  from  the  high  tops  of  the  cherry- 
trees,  a  silvery  voice  responded,  so  clear,  so  sweet,  so 
pure,  that  it  seemed  to  come  through  the  waters  of  a 
limpid  fountain.  I  recognized  the  voice  of  an  old  friend, 
the  goldfinch  ;  but  the  song  which  resounded  plaintively 
through  our  meadows  had  not  the  brilliancy  of  this. 

The  cuckoo  took  up  the  strain.  Then  followed  a 
silence  like  that  of  a  church,  and  our  footsteps  rustled 
through  the  short  grass  and  brambles  with  an  unfamiliar 
sound,  while  through  the  high,  dark  arches  overhead 
glimpses  of  the  sky  shone  like  stars. 

And  the  giant  beech-trees  raised  their  white  trunks 
spotted  with  velvety  black  patches,  and  the  oaks  twisted 
their  wrinkled  branches. 

At  times  I  shut  my  eyes,  dazzled  by  the  green  fulgu- 
rations  of  the  sun  darting  over  tufts  of  heather  and  fern 
that  glowed  like  red  and  black  flames  among  the  turf, 
striped  like  the  skin  of  a  wild-cat. 

Ivy  grew  along  the  ground  and  climbed  to  the  sum- 
mits of  the  trees,  clasping  them  in  its  thousand  arms. 

Now  and  then  a  light  breeze  sighed  among  the  masses 
of  dark  foliage,  swaying  them  gently,  and  among  the 
masses  of  transparent  verdure  that  glowed  with  a  brill- 
iant light. 

But  I  can  find  no  words  in  which  to  describe  the  im- 


I06  THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

pression  I  then  received,  which  was  one  of  the  strongest 
of  my  childhood. 

The  child,  who  is  all  feeling,  has  no  means  of  ex- 
pressing his  thoughts.  He  does  not  analyze  his  sensa- 
tions, and,  in  order  to  describe  what  I  then  felt,  I  must 
use  words  that  I  would  not  at  the  time  have  understood. 
This  presents  a  difficulty. 

My  father,  radiant  with  enthusiasm,  appeared  to  me 
under  a  new  aspect ;  he  seemed  to  me  handsome.  Ah  ! 
the  child  who,  at  the  risk  of  his  life,  had  escaped  from 
the  prison  of  the  chateau  and  hidden  himself  in  the 
depths  of  the  wood,  this  child  still  survived  in  him ! 

Later  on  it  will  be  seen  that  his  passion  for  forests 
brought  about  his  ruin. 

Every  part  of  the  forest,  however,  was  not  clothed 
with  this  wild  majesty. 

We  traversed  clearings  where  only  puny  trees  and 
heaps  of  fagots  were  to  be  seen,  and  openings  into 
which  the  sun  streamed,  where  flights  of  butterflies  that 
seemed  made  of  mother-of-pearl  and  fire  soared  in  zig- 
zag flight. 

And  I  felt  happier  in  these  luminous  places  than 
among  the  lofty  trees. 

But  by-and-by  I  felt  very  lonely,  and  I  began  to 
think  of  those  at  home  and  of  the  more  familiar  and 
cheerful  scenery  amid  which  they  lived,  of  my  god- 
mother, who  at  this  season  never  failed  to  prepare  for  us 
three  pots  of  different  kinds  of  cooling  draughts.  I 
missed  even  my  uncle,  who,  in  spite  of  his  occasional 
severity,  manifested  great  affection  for  us,  and  who  had 
so  strong  a  sentiment  of  justice  that  he  would  beg  our 
pardon,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  when  it  chanced  that  he 
had  punished  us  undeservingly.  Then  the  holly,  with 
its  hard  and  thorny  foliage,  and  the  rough  brambles,  re- 
called to  my  mind  by  the  contrast  they  formed  to  it,  our 


THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 


107 


vegetation,  so  tender  in  comparison.  Oh  !  the  colzas, 
the  pinks,  the  blue  flax  ! 

In  short,  I  grew  tired  of  the  forest,  because  I  felt, 
when  I  was  there,  as  if  I  were  lost  in  it ;  and  then  it  was 
always  the  same. 

So  that  one  day  I  begged  papa  to  let  me  stay  in  the 
house  under  pretext  of  writing  some  copies,  but  in  real- 
ity to  be  with  Antoinette,  whose  petting  began  to  please 
me. 

In  fact,  she  was  the  only  person  who  could  console 
me  for  the  absence  of  all  I  had  left  at  home. 

And  many  a  happy  hour  we  passed  at  the  little  farm- 
house— she,  the  animals,  and  I. 

When  the  morning  of  our  departure  arrived  she  came 
to  awaken  me,  and  essayed  in  vain  to  play  her  accus- 
tomed pranks.  The  moment  she  kissed  me  she  burst 
into  tears. 


XL. 

WHEN  we  set  out  I  thought  the  horses  moved  more 
slowly  than  they  had  ever  moved  before,  so  impatient 
was  I  to  see  my  family  and  my  home.  I  would  have 
liked  to  fly  there  ! 

How  I  envied  the  swallow  that  skimmed  so  swiftly 
along  the  ditches  by  the  roadside  !  My  thoughts  flew  on 
before  me,  and,  huddled  in  a  corner  of  the  stage-coach, 
my  eyes  close  shut,  I  fancied  I  could  hear,  amid  the 
noise  of  its  jolting  and  the  rolling  of  the  wheels,  the  re- 
frains of  my  native  place  ;  my  uncle's  songs  and  the 
ditties  of  Henriette  and  Frise,  and  the  rattling  of  the 
window-panes  brought  to  me,  like  a  joyous  echo,  the 
cries  that  my  brothers,  excited  by  their  sports,  were  at 
that  moment  uttering. 


IO8  THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 

And  again  I  saw  before  me  my  father's  house  and 
the  dear  ones  there. 

I  recalled  again  those  long  evenings  when  Joseph 
would  describe  to  me,  while  he  was  polishing  the  shoes, 
his  campaign  and  the  retreat  from  Moscow.  He  had 
slept  upon  the  ground  in  the  snow,  wrapped  in  the  skins 
of  the  horses  whose  flesh  he  had  eaten.  Once  he  had 
carried  on  his  back  for  hours  one  of  his  comrades  who 
had  become  insensible  from  the  cold,  and  had  thus  saved 
his  life.  And  he  made  no  merit  of  this  action.  What 
other  man  in  his  place  would  have  been  equally  modest  ? 

The  dreadful  hardships  he  then  endured  had  left 
him  with  rheumatism,  from  which  he  suffered  greatly, 
and  an  inextinguishable  thirst,  which  compelled  him  to 
stop  at  every  gin-shop  he  passed  for  drink,  for  which  he 
never  paid.  But  in  every  other  respect  what  a  fine  fel- 
low he  was  !  What  blind  devotion,  like  that  of  a  faith- 
ful dog  for  its  master,  did  he  show  for  my  family  !  I 
can  see  him  now,  when  he  was  sawing  wood  one  day  in 
the  unfinished  parlor,  and  the  loud  voice  reached  us,  of 
a  man  speaking  to  my  father  at  the  front  door,  strain  his 
ear  to  listen,  and  then  start  up  trembling  with  anger, 
throw  down  his  saw,  and,  at  one  bound,  quick  as  light- 
ning, leap  through  the  window  into  the  yard.  I  recalled 
to  mind  also  an  incident  that  occurred  a  year  or  two  be- 
fore (in  1834)  at  the  time  of  the  cholera,  of  which  every 
one  was  in  such  terror  and  which  I  too  was  a  little  afraid 
of,  on  account  of  the  table  covered  with  black  cloth  and 
supporting  a  crucifix,  that  stood  before  the  door  of 
every  house  in  which  lay  a  dead  person.  My  father  fell 
suddenly  ill,  and  as  the  doctor  ordered  a  medicine  which 
was  to  be  given  to  him  at  once,  Joseph  started  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  to  bring  it  from  Carvin,  for  then,  as 
now,  there  was  no  apothecary  at  Courrieres.  He  set  out, 
as  I  said,  and  lo  !  he  found  the  ferry-boat  turned  round. 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 

He  tried  in  vain  to  waken  the  sleeping  toll-keeper,  who 
made  no  response  either  to  his  cries  or  to  his  blows 
against  the  closed  shutters.  What  was  to  be  done! 
Throw  himself  into  the  water,  dressed  as  he  was,  and 
swim  across  the  river.  And  this  is  what  Joseph  did  ! 

By  what  strange  contradiction  of  character  was  it 
that  this  man,  who  was  so  good  at  heart,  had  so  peevish 
a  disposition,  and  why  was  he  always  quarreling  with  his 
wife  Phillipine,  who  was  also  a  model  of  goodness  ? 

My  thoughts  dwelt  on  all  this  while  the  trees  and  the 
houses  flew  past  us  on  either  side  of  the  road,  and  the 
apple-trees  in  the  meadows  whirled  past  dizzily,  keep- 
ing time  to  the  noise  of  the  coach-wheels,  and  I  said  to 
myself,  "What  happiness  it  will  be  to  embrace  this 
faithful  follower  to-morrow,  notwithstanding  his  rough 
skin  pitted  with  small-pox,  his  large  nose  covered  with 
pimples,  and  his  woolly  hair  like  that  of  a  savage  !  " 

I  thought  too  of  my  uncle. 

A  proof  that  he  was  not  always  severe  is  the  fact  that 
in  the  evening  he  often  recited  plays  to  us,  and  that 
then,  in  his  own  words,  he  became  a  child  again  to 
amuse  children.  At  times  we  would  sit  on  his  foot  and 
cling  to  his  leg  while  he  would  pretend  to  be  making 
desperate  efforts  to  raise  our  light  weight.  At  other 
times  he  would  take  a  candle  in  his  hand,  I  would  seize 
the  border  of  his  dressing-gown,  Louis  would  take  hold 
of  the  tails  of  his  coat,  fimile  would  place  himself  last, 
and  we  would  tramp  along,  one  behind  the  other,  keep- 
ing time  with  our  feet  as  we  sang : 

"  J'ai  perdu  tout  mon  bonbeur, 

J'ai  perdu  mon  serviteur, 
Colin  me  de*laisse.  .  .  ." 

But  I  was  moved  to  tears  as  I  thought  of  my  old 
godmother.  And,  indeed,  we  never  had  occasion  to  re- 


HO  THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

member  that  we  had  no  mother;  so  devoted  was  she  to 
us  in  every  way.  Even  her  wrinkles  made  her  all  the 
dearer  to  us.  We  made  haste  to  give  her  proofs  of  our 
affection,  as  if  we  felt  that  she  would  be  the  first  to  de- 
part. 

How  many  times  have  we  fallen  asleep  in  her  lap, 
while  murmuring  the  prayer  she  taught  us,  resting  our 
heads  against  her  bosom,  that  rose  and  fell  with  her 
breathing,  tranquil  as  her  conscience ! 

How  many  sleepless  hours  had  she  spent  bending 
over  us  in  our  childish  illnesses  !  She  often  told  us  the 
dreams  these  constant  anxieties  would  produce.  At 
times  we  would  be  attacked  by  ferocious  dogs,  and  she 
would  throw  herself  upon  them  and  tear  them  to  pieces. 
Then  it  was  a  man  who  pushed  against  little  Louis,  who 
was  blowing  a  whistle,  and  knocked  the  whistle  down  his 
throat.  She  would  fall  upon  the  man  and  strangle  him 
in  her  arms. 

And  the  vehicle  rolled  on,  and  beyond  the  plains  the 
slender  slated  spires  of  belfry  towers  pierced  here  and 
there  through  the  somber  shadows  of  the  woods. 

And  as  we  .were  to  stop  at  Calonne  on  our  way  to 
visit  my  granduncle,  Henry  Fumery,  my  godmother's 
brother,  who  still  dwelt  in  the  paternal  farm-house,  the 
thought  came  to  me  that  godmother  had  once  been  as 
young  as  I  was,  and  that  she  had  made  her  first  com- 
munion, a  white  veil  over  her  fair  rosy  face,  a  white 
taper  in  her  hand,  and  had  returned  from  church  be- 
tween the  yoke-elm  hedges  of  a  village  like  the  villages 
we  were  driving  through. 

I  have  forgotten  where  we  slept  that  night. 

On  the  following  morning  the  sunshine  played  no 
longer  in  the  little  room,  and  I  might  have  waited  long 
in  vain  for  Antoinette  to  come.  I  saw  in  imagination 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST.  Iir 

the  young  girl,  with  her  golden  hair,  standing  there 
yonder,  looking  at  my  empty  bed,  as  I  had  often  looked 
into  empty  nests  robbed  of  the  young  birds. 


XLI. 

WHEN  I  entered  my  granduncle  Henry's  farm-house 
I  recognized  it  by  the  glowing  descriptions  of  it  with 
which  my  grandmother  had  interspersed  the  stories  she 
used  to  tell  us  of  her  youthful  days. 

And,  indeed,  nothing  had  changed  there  since  the 
time  of  my  great-grandfather,  the  magistrate. 

I  recognized  the  pastures  and  the  ditches,  bridged 
with  planks  over  which  my  grandmother  had  many  a 
time  walked  with  careful  step,  as  she  returned  at  night 
from  some  sick-bed,  carrying  her  lantern  in  her  hand, 
undisturbed  by  the  fears  of  witches  ;  the  muddy  roads, 
paved  with  stones,  so  far  apart  that  one  had  to  walk  in 
a  series  of  jumps  ;  and  the  shady  paths  crossing  the 
sunny  meadows. 

And  here,  at  last,  is  the  bowery,  tranquil  village, 
with  its  little  church  roofed  with  green  moss-covered 
slates. 

Here  it  is  that  godmother  spent  her  youthful  days — 
days  full  of  affection,  courage,  and  piety. 

I  had  these  qualities  of  hers  in  my  mind  when  de- 
picting the  character  of  Angele  in  my  poem  "  Jeanne." 
Let  me  recall  here  a  few  of  the  events  of  her  life. 

This  dates  back  as  far  as  the  Reign  of  Terror,  when 
the  ferocious  Le  Bon,  commissioner  of  the  republic  at 
Arras,  brought  dishonor,  as,  alas  !  did  so  many  others 
of  our  countrymen,  on  the  justest  of  causes. 

In  his  ignorant  simplicity,  believing  what  his  father 


112  THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

before  him  had  believed,  Scolastique  Fumery  did  not 
divine  the  benefits  that  were  to  result  from  the  Revolu- 
tion, and  saw  in  it  only  the  crimes,  the  recital  of  which 
filled  the  farm-house  with  indignation  and  terror. 

The  storm  was  approaching. 

Bands  of  wicked  men  (as  godmother  called  them) 
went  through  the  country,  desecrating  the  churches  and 
decapitating  the  sacred  statues. 

The  pious  young  girl  concealed  the  patron  saint  of 
the  village  under  her  mattress ;  and  when  the  wicked 
men  came,  placing  herself  at  the  head  of  the  most  coura- 
geous women  of  the  village,  she  led  them  to  the  church, 
which  these  men  had  entered,  and,  rushing  toward  them, 
threw  in  their  faces  sand  and  ashes  which  they  had 
brought  with  them  in  their  aprons. 

Betrayed  and  denounced,  after  a  search  which  re- 
sulted in  the  discovery  of  the  hidden  saint,  godmother 
was  thrown  into  prison  in  Arras,  where  she  daily  ex- 
pected to  be  led  to  execution,  for  I  know  not  how 
long. 

She  emerged  from  prison  when  the  death  of  Robes- 
pierre brought  about  that  of  Le  Bon. 

They  came  and  told  her  she  was  free,  and,  as  she 
was  unable  to  communicate  with  her  relatives,  she  found 
herself,  outside  the  prison-gate,  friendless  and  without 
knowing  where  to  turn. 

There  she  learned  that  among  the  prisoners  liber- 
ated with  her  was  Doctor  Platel,  of  Lestrem,  a  village 
not  far  from  her  own.  She  knew  him  by  reputation. 
She  went  to  him. 

They  returned  to  the  village  together,  recounting 
their  sufferings  to  each  other,  mingling  their  tears  of 
joy,  uniting  their  hopes,  so  that  the  journey  must  have 
been  a  happy  one,  rilled  with  tender  emotions ;  and 
Cupid,  who  doubtless  lay  in  wait  for  them,  with  drawn 


THE  LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST.  II3 

bow,  in  some  corner  of  the  yoke- elm  hedge,  did  not 
miss  his  aim,  for  they  were  soon  married. 

During  this  time  my  paternal  grandfather  Lambert 
Breton  was  fighting  in  Belgium^  under  the  command  of 
General  Vandamme. 

Let  me  here  say  a  few  words  in  relation  to  his  his- 
tory. 

The  religious  old  books,  with  their  wonderful  pict- 
ures, which  had  excited  my  admiration  in  the  left  at 
home,  will  be  remembered,  but  I  forgot  to  say  that,  in 
the  same  trunk  which  contained  them,  I  had  also  found 
a  sword,  the  hilt  of  which  terminated  in  a  Phrygian 
cap.  I  broke  the  blade  of  it  one  day,  plunging  it  into 
the  earth  to  clean  the  rust  from  it,  and  this  was  one  of 
the  deepest  of  my  childish  griefs,  for  I  had  a  veneration 
for  this  sword  which  had  belonged  to  my  grandfather. 

These  books  and  this  weapon  symbolize  two  phases 
of  his  life. 

When  the  Revolution  broke  out  he  was  studying 
theology  at  the  Abbey  of  Anchin  at  Douai.  He  had 
dedicated  himself  to  the  priesthood.  The  irresistible 
pressure  of  events,  the  new  ideas  which  circulated  in 
the  air,  turned  him  aside  from  this  project. 

He  quitted  the  abbey  and  returned  to  Courrieres. 
He  did  not  long  remain  tranquil  there. 

Denounced  by  an  aristocrat,  he  too  was  arrested  by 
order  of  the  same  Le  Bon,  and  conducted  to  the  prison 
at  Arras.  At  this  moment  France  called  all  her  chil- 
dren to  the  defense  of  her  threatened  frontiers.  The  in- 
habitants of  Courrieres  formed  a  company,  chose  my 
grandfather  for  their  captain,  and  marched  to  Arras  to 
demand  his  release,  which  they  obtained. 

As  I  have  before  said,  they  set  out  for  the  seat  of 
war  in  Belgium. 

We  keep  among  our  family  archives  letters  of  Cap- 


114 


THE    LIFE   OF   AN    ARTIST. 


tain  Lambert  Breton  that  breathe  an  ardent  patriotism, 
for  he  had  yielded  to  the  contagion  of  the  movement 
that  drew  with  it  all  hearts. 

As  soon  as  the  campaign  ended,  he  married. 

It  will  be  seen  that,  but  for  the  Revolution,  I  would 
never  have  been  born. 


XLII. 

I  WAS  to  quit  this  dear  spot,  to  bid  adieu  to  the  pa- 
ternal mansion  and  to  those  scenes  where  every  one  and 
everything,  the  animals,  and  even  the  trees,  had  been 
so  closely  intermingled  with  my  existence.  The  days 
spent  in  the  freedom  of  the  open  air  were  past.  I  was 
about  to  leave  my  Eden  for  a  gloomy  school. 

My  uncle  wished  to  place  me  in  the  college  of  Do- 
uai,  but  my  father  preferred  a  small  seminary  about 
twenty  leagues  distant  from  Courrieres,  where  some  of 
our  friends  had  placed  their  sons. 

On  the  day  of  my  departure  my  brothers  wept  in 
corners.  Godmother  and  Phillipine  wept — everybody 
wept.  I  was  scarcely  ten,  and  I  was  going  to  be  de- 
prived of  the  sweet  indulgences  of  home. 

On  the  journey  my  cheerfulness  returned  :  I  saw 
new  objects  ;  and  then  my  father  and  my  uncle  were 
with  me. 

When  they  left  me  and  I  found  myself  alone  among 
this  crowd  of  school-boys  whose  faces  were  strange  to 
me,  the  recollection  of  all  I  had  left,  of  all  that  I  loved, 
filled  my  swelling  heart  with  poignant  grief  and  I  broke 
into  sobs. 

I  wandered  about  the  large,  gloomy  court-yard,  the 
butt  of  the  jeers  of  my  new  school-fellows,  whom  I  be- 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST.  j^ 

gan  to  hate  with  the  unreasoning  hatred  of  the  exile  for 
everything  belonging  to  the  place  of  his  banishment, 
thinking  them,  with  a  few  exceptions,  ugly  and  rude. 

And  instead  of  the  vast  horizons,  the  trees  and  flow- 
ers, an  immense  building,  bare  as  a  barrack,  the  Mili- 
tary Hospital,  rose  above  the  court-yard  wall. 

I  remained  there  three  weary  years — years  that  the 
bright  intervals  of  the  vacations  only  served  to  render 
all  the  more  gloomy.  I  gradually  became  accustomed 
to  this  narrow  existence,  in  which  everything  was  un- 
congenial, in  which  an  organized  system  of  espionage 
existed  among  the  pupils,  and  in  which  I  search  my 
memory  in  vain  for  the  face  of  a  friend,  for  friendship 
was  prohibited  and  punished.  Thus,  when  it  was  ob- 
served that  I  preferred  the  company  of  some  of  the  boys 
to  that  of  the  others,  I  was  forbidden  to  associate  with 
them,  and  I  was  forced  to  choose  my  companions  from 
a  list  of  a  dozen  of  the  pupils  most  repellent  to  me. 

I  was  unable  to  conquer  the  repugnance  with  which 
these  boys  inspired  me,  and  for  a  long  time  I  preferred 
to  remain  alone.  I  became  dreamy  and  absent-minded, 
and  spent  my  time  idly  gazing  into  vacancy. 

From  these  degrading  surroundings,  however,  there 
was,  for  some  natures,  a  refuge  in  mysticism. 

Wounded  in  my  tenderest  affections,  I  fell  into  a 
state  of  spiritual  languor  in  which  I  abandoned  myself 
to  celestial  raptures.  I  heard  the  torments  of  hell,  the 
terrors  of  purgatory,  and  the  dazzling  splendors  of  para- 
dise, continually  talked  of. 

Religious  ceremonies  were  frequent,  and  were  cele- 
brated with  comparative  splendor. 

I  had  been  brought  up  by  an  uncle  who  was  a  Chris- 
tian philosopher.  I  did  not  believe  all  that  was  taught 
in  the  seminary,  but  I  had  a  thirst  for  emotions,  and  I 
gave  myself  up  to  mystic  reveries.  Among  the  masters 


Il6  THE  LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

and  the  pupils,  although  there  were  some  hypocrites, 
with  languishing  eyes,  gaping  mouths,  and  pious  grim- 
aces, there  were  many  who  were  sincerely  devout.  I 
was  touched  by  the  ardent  piety  of  some  of  these,  espe- 
cially of  little  L ,  whose  fair  face,  framed  in  curls, 

wore  a  truly  angelic  expression  when,  motionless  and 
lost  in  prayer,  his  soul  soared  heavenward. 

I  loved  him  and  would  have  liked  to  make  him  my 
friend,  but,  even  if  he  had  shared  this  feeling,  all  inti- 
macy was  prohibited,  and  I  did  not  approach  him. 

There  was  another  of  the  pupils,  also,  who  was  sin- 
cere in  his  devotion,  E C ,  the  son  of  a  friend 

of  my  father,  a  bon-vivant,  whose  character  presented  a 
strange  contrast  to  the  spirituality  of  his  son. 

How  retiring  he  was  !  What  a  melancholy  expres- 
sion in  his  eyes  !  Older  than  I,  and  my  monitor  of 
study,  he  would  reprove  me  gently  for  my  faults,  which 
he  never  reported. 

He  was  thin  and  puny-looking.  He  would  spend 
whole  hours  in  a  state  of  ecstasy  in  the  chapel.  He 
soon  afterward  decided  to  study  for  the  priesthood,  and 
went  to  the  large  seminary.  What  storm  shook  his  soul 
I  never  knew.  But  one  day  we  learned  that  he  had 
thrown  off  his  cassock.  He  returned  to  the  village,  to 
fall  ill  and  die.  Poor  friend  ! 

Oh,  how  long  and  weary  were  the  ceremonies  in  the 
chapel,  especially  at  vespers,  when,  in  the  warm  and  lan- 
guorous summer  afternoons,  I  would  give  myself  up  to 
meditation,  while  the  sun  streamed  through  the  high 
windows,  with  their  bright-red  blinds,  darting  into  every 
corner  of  the  little  temple  rays  red  as  blood  !  I  felt  as 
if  I  were  among  the  fires  of  hell ;  while  at  the  end  of  the 
chapel  the  altar,  starred  with  light,  shone  like  a  glimpse 
of  paradise  through  the  smoke  of  the  incense,  whose 
odor  at  times  made  me  faint.  Ah,  what  celestial  ravish- 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 


117 


ment  I  experienced  the  first  time  I  saw  my  young  com- 
panions make  their  first  communion  ! 

But  what  I  took  for  divine  love  was,  my  confessor 
explained  to  me,  only  a  trap  set  by  the  evil  one  for  my 
pride  !  It  is  evident  that  I  was  far  from  being  ortho- 
dox in  my  reveries.  This  confessor  rated  me  soundly 
for  it. 

I  was  not  allowed  to  make  my  first  communion, 
which  grieved  me  greatly,  for  I  had  looked  upon  this 
act  as  the  acme  of  felicity.  Every  year  there  were  two 
or  three  weeks  of  retreat,  during  which  we  abandoned 
all  play,  all  work,  all  profane  study,  in  order  to  practice 
religious  exercises.  Then  Jesuit  fathers  came  to  hold 
conferences  in  the  chapel  and  in  the  study-room. 

This  was  an  occasion  of  special  graces  and  plenary 
indulgences.  It  was  also  a  good  opportunity  to  enlight- 
en the  hesitating  and  confound  the  proud.  Well,  dur- 
ing those  retreats  I  was  sent  to  the  infirmary,  along  with 
some  esprits  forts  among  the  pupils,  to  continue  our 
usual  studies,  with  the  pretext  that  we  would  not  profit 
by  those  graces,  and  that  our  hearts,  not  being  prepared 
to  receive  the  divine  seed,  the  devil  would  avail  himself 
of  the  occasion  to  sow  there  his  tares. 

All  this  helped  to  cure  me  of  my  mysticism. 

The  following  year,  although  I  was  at  the  head  of 
the  class  in  the  catechism,  my  first  communion  was  again 
postponed.  But  I  had  now  grown  more  indifferent,  and 
when,  in  1840,  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  I  was  at  last  per- 
mitted to  make  it,  my  strongest  feeling  was  one  of  mor- 
tification, caused  by  finding  myself  overtopping  by  a 
head  my  happy  little  companions. 

Ah,  how  much  more  enlightened  and  liberal  did  my 
uncle's  teachings  seem  ! 

In  our  walks,  however,  I  enjoyed  once  more  a  little 
real  sunshine  and  healthy  pleasure. 


H8  THE   LIFE    OF   AN   ARTIST. 

We  would  play  foot-ball,  and  eat  cherries  that  we 
bought  from  an  old  woman,  in  sunny  meadows  sur- 
rounded by  vast  uncultivated  heaths,  growing  on  heights 
bathed  in  a  purer  atmosphere,  whence  could  be  seen 
the  hill  of  Cassel,  whose  windmills  and  houses  seemed 
to  quiver  in  the  distant  light. 

The  masters  would  take  off  their  cassocks,  and,  in 
their  shirt-sleeves,  join  in  the  sports  of  the  boys. 

I  think  this  sort  of  camaraderie  was  one  of  the  secrets 
of  their  influence,  and  I  regret  that  it  is  not  practiced  in 
secular  institutions. 

Even  at  play-time,  however,  I  often  remained  alone. 
The  unruly  city  boys  scorned  my  rustic  simplicity,  and, 
in  fact,  I  felt  myself,  when  among  them,  awkward  and 
weighed  down  by  a  timidity  that  was  fostered  by  my 
lonely  habits. 

Amid  these  deteriorating  surroundings  one  passion 
saved  me — the  love  of  art. 

To  become  a  painter !  This  had  been  my  dream 
ever  since  the  time  when  Fremy  used  to  paint  the  fig- 
ures in  our  garden.  My  father  allowed  me  to  take  the 
drawing-course,  directed  by  an  easy,  good  old  man, 
whom  I  regarded  as  a  great  artist,  because  I  had  seen  a 
lithograph  of  his  representing  the  ruins  of  the  Abbey  of 
St.  Bertin  in  the  stationer's  window. 

The  first  time  I  entered  this  class  I  was  seized  with 
a  lively  emotion  at  the  sight  of  the  copies  hanging  over 
the  desks.  With  what  delightful  thrills  I  penetrated, 
little  by  little,  into  the  agitating  mysteries  of  the  stump 
and  charcoal !  What  happy  hours  of  forgetfulness  I* 
spent  copying  figures  of  Moses,  of  Mordecai,  of  Scipio, 
and,  above  all,  Raphaelesque,  wearing  handkerchiefs 
twisted  around  the  head  like  turbans,  and  fastened  un- 
derneath the  chin  ! 

Ah,  to  be  able  to  follow  the  delicate  and  graceful  out- 


THE    LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

lines  of  those  foreheads,  of  those  regular  noses,  those 
rounded  cheeks,  those  exquisitely  flexible  necks  ! 

0  Raphael  !    O  sublime  genius  !    You  consoled  me 
for  the  disturbance  in  my  uneasy  mysticism. 

During  the  drawing-hour  some  of  the  pupils  took 
lessons  in  music,  in  an  adjoining  room,  and  nothing 
could  be  more  delightful  than  to  hear,  as  I  drew,  the 
silvery  sighs  of  the  flute — mingling  the  pleasures  of  sound 
with  those  of  sight — vibrating  in  unison  with  the  rapt- 
ures of  my  growing  passion,  and  their  melodious  ex- 
pression, as  it  were.  We  drew  in  the  evening  by  lamp- 
light. 

At  times  we  could  perceive — O  mar-joy  ! — the  severe 
countenance  of  the  Superior,  looking  in  at  us  through  the 
window-panes,  as  he  prowled  around  in  the  dark  court- 
yard, for  we  were  everywhere  under  surveillance. 

1  liked  geography.     This,  too,  was  a  species  of  art. 
Certain  countries  charmed  me  by  their  shape ;  others 
displeased  me.     That  of  France  seemed  to  me  the  best 
proportioned,   the   best   balanced.     South  America  at- 
tracted me  by  its  svelte  elegance  of  form,  and  Terra  del 
Fuego,  which   terminates  it,  plunged  me  into  mysterious 
reveries. 

But  to  color  my  maps  I  had  only  very  poor  paints. 
It  was  necessary  to  soak  them  in  water  for  a  long  time 
to  obtain  even  a  pale  tint ;  and  I  remember  a  red  and  a 
green,  very  beautiful  in  the  cake,  from  which  I  could 
extract  nothing,  while  the  boy  whose  desk  was  in  front 
of  mine  had  superb  paints,  three  or  four  times  as  large 
as  mine,  and  I  wondered  at  the  ease  with  which  he 
blended  them  and  filled  the  brush  with  their  splendid 
colors. 

I  would  never  have  dared  to  ask  my  father  for  paints 
like  those,  so  much  beyond  his  means  did  they  seem  to  me. 

This  treasure  kindled  in  me  the  consuming  flames  of 


120  THE    LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

covetousness.  I  experienced  the  tortures  caused  by  a 
fixed  idea  and  by  the  pangs  of  envy.  A  demon  whis- 
pered ceaselessly  in  my  ear,  "  Take  them  !  take  them  !  " 
I  lay  awake  for  hours  thinking  of  carmine,  emerald 
green,  gamboge — oh  !  above  all,  of  gamboge — and  in  my 
sleep  I  dreamed  of  them. 

One  night,  unable  to  resist  the  temptation  any 
longer,  I  got  up  and  went  to  the  study-room,  my  heart 
palpitating  with  guilty  terrors  ;  my  teeth  chattered ;  my 
legs  bent  under  me ;  and  I  trembled  in  every  limb. 

By  a  singular  coincidence,  of  which  I  never  knew  the 
cause,  at  the  moment  when  I  opened  the  desk,  a  school- 
fellow suddenly  came  into  the  room  and  asked  me  what 
I  was  doing  there. 

I  thought  I  should  die  with  fright,  and,  as  in  a  case 
like  this,  one  is  always  stupid,  I  answered,  "  I  am  look- 
ing at  the  butterflies !  "  (The  owner  of  the  paints  was  a 
collector  of  butterflies.) 

I  had  thrust  the  box  hastily  into  my  pocket,  and,  as  I 
hurried  up-stairs,  my  heart  beating  so  violently  that  it 
caused  me  'pain,  my  companion,  who  was  close  behind, 
noticed  the  noise  that  sounded  from  my  pocket — accus- 
ing noise,  produced  at  every  step  I  took,  by  the  shaking 
of  the  paints  in  the  pine-wood  box. 

I  did  not  sleep  all  night,  agitated  between  remorse 
and  the  happiness  of  possessing  the  object  so  ardently 
coveted,  and  which  I  kept  closely  clasped  to  my  breast. 
With  the  first  ray  of  daylight  I  tried  on  the  back  of  my 
hand  the  wonderful  colors. 

I  was  not  to  possess  them  long,  however.  My  esca- 
pade became  known  to  their  legitimate  owner.  He  was 
an  excellent  boy,  named  D'Halluin.  He  deserves  that 
I  should  mention  his  name,  for  he  was  very  generous. 
All  he  said  was,  "  Give  them  back  to  me — I  will  say 
nothing  about  them."  And  he  kept  his  word. 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST.  I2i 


XLIII. 

MY  passion  for  drawing  led  me  into  another  dis- 
agreeable adventure  which  left  a  feeling  of  rancor  in  my 
heart. 

In  the  school  there  was  a  large  black  wolf-hound, 
which  answered  to  the  name  of  Coco. 

I  took  a  fancy,  one  day,  to  draw  this  dog  standing 
on  his  hind  legs,  clad  in  a  cassock,  and  holding  between 
his  fore  paws  a  book.  I  wrote  underneath,  "  The  Abbe 
Coco  reading  his  Breviary." 

This  innocent  sketch  made  the  tour  of  the  school- 
room, passing  from  hand  to  hand,  provoking  the  mirth 
of  some,  the  disapprobation  of  others,  when  it  was  noticed 
by  the  master,  who  ran  and  seized  it.  "  Who  has  been 
guilty  of  this  wickedness  ?  "  he  asked.  I  was  immedi- 
ately denounced. 

The  master  pulled  my  ears,  made  me  kneel  down  in 
the  middle  of  the  hall,  and  sent  my  poor  caricature  to 
the  sub-director. 

A  few  moments  afterward  the  bell  rang  for  supper, 
and  all  the  boys  went  to  the  refectory.  I  was  about  to 
follow  them,  when  he  said  to  me,  "  Stay  where  you  are  ! " 

And  there  I  stayed,  asking  myself  anxiously  what 
they  were  going  to  do  to  me. 

I  had  not  long  to  wait.  I  was  soon  aroused  from  the 
torpor  into  which  I  had  sunk  by  a  formidable  blow  from 
behind,  and  I  knew  then  that  those  who  told  me  they 
had  seen  in  similar  cases,  thirty-six  candles,  had  not 
spoken  figuratively,  for  it  seemed  as  if  a  shower  of  fire- 
works had  exploded  in  my  brain.  Half  stunned,  I  felt 
myself  lifted  from  the  floor  and  dragged  in  an  iron  grasp 
down  the  whole  length  of  the  stairs,  my  feet  bumping 
against  every  step. 


122  THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

When  I  reached  the  room  of  the  sub-director,  he 
threw  me  on  the  ground,  an$  looked  at  me  in  silence 
with  pale  and  implacable  countenance. 

I  was  terrified.  When  he  saw  that  I  had  to  some 
extent  recovered  my  senses,  the  monster  put  me  this 
pitiless  question  : 

"  Was  it  to  ridicule  your  professor,  or  was  it  from 
irreverence,  that  you  made  that  infamous  scrawl  ?  " 

To  ridicule  a  professor  seeming  to  me  the  graver  of 
the  two  faults,  I  responded  : 

"  From  irreverence  !  from  irreverence  !  " 

He  immediately  took  off  his  cassock,  seized  a  cat-o'- 
nine-tails  lying  ready  on  his  desk,  and  then  followed  a 
long  and  terrible  struggle,  in  which  I  rolled  among  the 
chairs  and  under  the  table,  striking  myself  against  every 
corner,  and  writhing  under  every  stroke  of  the  lash. 
The  sub-director  was  a  tall  and  powerful  man,  of  a  very 
pale  complexion,  with  broad,  square  shoulders,  and  arms 
of  which  he  was  in  the  mood  to  make  me  feel  the  full 
strength. 

It  is  needless  to  add  that  during  this  rain  of  blows  he 
exhausted  the  vocabulary  of  epithets  usually  applied  to 
the  greatest  criminals. 

Strange  to  say,  this  barbarous  punishment  did  not 
enrage  me  at  the  time  as  much  as  the  recollection  of  it 
does  now.  It  was  convincing.  I  regarded  myself  as  a 
hardened  sinner,  a  species  of  reprobate. 

In  my  imagination,  excited  by  the  blows  of  the  whip, 
my  executioner  assumed  supernatural  proportions,  and, 
seen  through  a  cloud  of  dust,  whirling  the  thong,  he  ap- 
peared terrible  and  beautiful,  and  surrounded  by  a  halo 
like  an  avenging  archangel ;  and  the  next  time  I  went 
to  the  cathedral  I  thought  of  him  when  I  looked  up  at 
the  St.  Michel  of  Ziegler  over  the  principal  altar,  shin- 
ing in  his  golden  armor.  I  was  certain  then  that  I  was 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 


123 


foredoomed  to  hell ;  but,  as  I  had  no  positive  knowledge 
regarding  the  location  of  that  place,  I  suffered  less  from 
fear  of  its  tortures,  than  from  a  feeling  of  self-contempt. 
Though  at  times,  indeed,  I  saw  again  in  imagination 
those  devils,  armed  with  bars  of  red-hot  iron,  whom  I  had 
imagined  1  had  seen  pursuing  me  when  I  was  in  my 
nurse's  arms  on  the  evening  of  the  charivari  given  to 
Zaguee. 

I  had  not  yet  seen  the  last  of  my  humiliations.  One 
day,  when  I  had  thrown  mud  against  one  of  the  window- 
panes  of  the  class-room,  they  dressed  me  in  servant's 
clothes,  tied  a  blue  apron  around  my  waist,  gave  me  a 
basin  of  water  and  a  sponge,  and,  mounting  me  on  a 
table,  made  me  wash  the  window  in  the  presence  of  all 
the  boys. 

This  brought  me  into  ridicule,  and  did  not  tend  to 
elevate  me  either  in  the  estimation  of  my  companions  or 
in  my  own. 

Regarded  by  my  school-fellows  and  by  myself  as  a 
black  sheep,  I  continued  to  wander  about  in  the  gloomy 
court-yard,  more  lonely  than  ever. 

When  I  received  letters  or  presents  from  my  native 
place,  I  fancied  for  an  instant  that  I  saw  again  my  home, 
and  I  shed  tears  of  poignant  anguish. 

Often  during  the  night,  lying  with  wakeful  eyes,  I 
saw  my  father's  house,  the  gardens,  the  wide  plain  dotted 
with  fields  of  grain,  and  again  I  saw  the  dear  ones  there, 
and,  like  the  swift  winged  butterfly,  that,  without  paus- 
ing in  its  flight,  hovers,  now  over  this  flower,  now  over 
that,  my  imagination  spread  its  wings  and  flew  swiftly 
from  my  father  and  my  uncle  to  my  brothers,  from  the 
servants  to  my  playfellows,  from  the  animals  to  the  trees, 
from  one  familiar  spot  to  another,  rushing  through  the 
alleys,  skimming  along  the  ponds,  and  meeting  with  a 
smiling  welcome  everywhere,  from  the  kindly  eyes  that 


124 


THE   LIFE   OF   AN    ARTIST. 


lighted  up  the  wrinkled  face  of  my  grandmother,  to  the 
motionless  faces  of  the  figures  in  the  kitchen  garden. 

But  how  swiftly  the  illusion  vanished,  when,  in  the 
morning  light,  I  saw,  through  the  little  window  of  my 
room,  the  stone  flames  of  the  Military  Hospital,  and,  a 
little  beyond,  the  two  towers  of  the  ancient  church  of 
the  Jesuits  ! 

About  this  time  a  trunk  was  sent  me  from  Courrieres, 
containing  articles  which  I  needed.  I  opened  it,  and  it 
seemed  as  if  a  breath  from  my  native  place  was  wafted 
to  me,  bringing  with  it  at  once  all  the  love  and  tender- 
ness and  all  the  familiar  scents  of  home.  At  the  sight 
of  the  order  with  which  those  articles  were  arranged — the 
white  shirt,  among  which  loving  hands  had  concealed 
bonbons,  folded  in  a  particular  fashion — I  felt  myself 
shaken  with  quick  sobs,  and  tears  of  grateful  affection 
streamed  from  my  eyes.  When  I  got  to  the  bottom  of 
the  trunk,  I  found  there  in  a  corner  a  scrap  of  paper, 
folded.  It  contained  a  Hard,*  and  bore  these  words,  in 
little  Emile's  handwriting :  "  Jules,  je  te  $aule  !  "  f 


XLIV. 

BUT  how  quickly  all  my  griefs  and  mortifications  were 
forgotten  when,  on  the  first  morning  of  the  vacation,  a 
ray  of  country  sunshine  came  to  waken  me  in  my  white 
bed,  with  its  sheets  feeling  a  little  stiff  with  the  fresh 
starch — when  I  heard  again  all  the  familiar  sounds  of 
home  ! 

How  small  the  house  appeared  to  me,  that  I  had 
thought  so  large ! 

*  A  coin  equal  in  value  to  the  fourth  part  of  a  cent, 
f  Equivalent  to  "  Jules,  I  send  you  my  love." 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST.  I25 

With  what  transports  of  affection  I  kissed  all  the  be- 
loved faces  !  How  impatient  I  was  to  visit  every  corner 
of  the  house !  What  good  bread !  What  delicious 
coffee  !  Even  the  hair-cloth  tabourets  in  the  school- 
room appeared  soft  to  me.  As  soon  as  I  had  seen 
everything,  I  chose  for  my  special  retreat  an  unfre- 
quented spot,  a  little  room  lighted  by  a  single  window 
that  opened  on  the  garden — the  same  window  of  which, 
some  years  before,  I  had  broken  the  panes. 

When  I  entered  this  room  a  strong  odor  greeted  my 
nostrils — an  odor  composed  of  divers  smells,  for  it  was  in 
this  place  that  our  gardener  kept  his  flower  and  vege- 
table seeds.  But  this  mixture  of  smells,  among  which 
those  of  celery,  shallot,  and  carrot  predominated,  in- 
spired me  with  no  repugnance. 

Here  I  established  my  atelier,  and  amused  myself  by 
carving  figures  of  peasants  in  soft  stone,  or  by  painting 
on  wood  with  the  juice  of  flowers  and  berries,  such  as 
the  scabious  and  the  mulberry. 

One  day,  I  received  a  visit  from  a  woman  named 
Marie,  who  lived  in  our  village  and  who  earned  a  liveli- 
hood by  painting  weeping-willows  on  monumental  urns, 
crosses  for  the  cemetery,  and  ornamental  sign-boards  for 
taverns. 

On  this  occasion  she  had  received  an  order  for  a 
sign-board,  of  which  the  decoration  was  to  be  of  so  com- 
plicated a  character  as  to  be  beyond  her  skill,  and  she 
came  to  ask  my  assistance,  which  I  promised  her  with- 
out hesitation,  proud  of  this  mark  of  confidence. 

While  I  cleared  a  space  to  work  in,  by  pushing  into 
the  corners  the  gardening  implements  and  the  bundles 
of  willow  and  osier  with  which  Frisk's  room  was  encum- 
bered, Marie  went  to  bring  the  board — a  large  panel 
rounded  at  the  top — and  her  brushes  and  color-pots. 

We  placed  the  panel  on  a  table,  resting  it  against  the 


126  THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

cases  of  the  herbal,  and  I  soon  discovered  that  the  art- 
ist stood,  indeed,  in  great  need  of  assistance. 

She  had  begun,  by  writing  around  the  top  of  the 
panel  the  title  of  the  subject,  "  The  Society  of  Associated 
Friends." 

As  these  friends  were  a  society,  it  followed  that  they 
were  associated.  I  drew  her  attention  to  this  pleonasm 
in  the  first  place. 

In  addition  to  this  it  was  difficult  to  distinguish  the 
friends  in  Marie's  confused  daub.  One  could  make  out 
a  blue  sky  with  white  clouds  shaped  like  corkscrews  in 
it,  and  a  column  supporting  a  vase  of  flowers,  flanked 
by  two  aloes,  but  the  figures  of  the  friends  bore  no  like- 
ness to  anything  whatever. 

I  rubbed  out  all  this  mess,  and  asked  Marie  to  go 
away  and  leave  me  to  my  inspiration. 

I  was  filled  with  emotion.  These  little  pots  of  chrome, 
vermilion,  and  Prussian  blue,  transported  me  with  joy. 

But  how  set  about  the  composition  of  the  picture  ? 
I  thought  for  a  long  time  in  vain.  Then  I  had  recourse 
to  the  Magasin  Pittoresque.  My  uncle  had  been  a  sub- 
scriber to  it  ever  since  its  establishment,  and,  after  the 
engravings  in  the  loft,  nothing  had  contributed  more  to 
inspire  me  with  a  love  for  art  than  this  periodical, 
founded  by  Eduard  Charton,  to  whom  I  have  since  had 
occasion  to  manifest  my  gratitude. 

I  chose  a  scene  after  Giraud,  representing  some  jolly 
French  Guards,  and  I  copied  the  composition  of  it,  chang- 
ing the  costume  of  the  figures  for  that  of  our  peasants. 

Marie  was  satisfied  with  my  work. 

This  must  have  still  smacked  somewhat  of  the  school 
of  Fremy.  A  certain  peasant  in  knee-breeches  of 
chrome-yellow  and  an  apple-green  coat,  might,  so  far  as 
coloring  was  concerned,  contest  the  palm  with  the 
Chinese  of  the  pigeon-house. 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 


127 


The  poor  Chinese  !  Let  me  say  here,  before  leaving 
him  forever,  that  he  had  fallen  greatly  from  his  former 
splendor. 

The  catastrophe  I  have  before  spoken  of  had  already 
happened.  The  plainest  rules  of  common  sense  forbade 
the  restoration  to  their  former  position  of  his  airy  tem- 
ple, his  extinguisher  hung  with  bells,  or  his  ball.  Even 
the  landscape  had  suffered  considerably. 

The  figure  itself,  however,  continued  to  smoke  its 
long  pipe  as  philosophically  as  before,  and  showed  as 
much  zeal  as  ever  in  pointing  out  the  quarter  from  which 
the  wind  blew. 

As  for  my  sign,  1  never  saw  it  again.  My  brothers 
came  across  it  one  day,  in  one  of  their  excursions,  hang- 
ing over  the  door  of  a  wine-shop  in  a  village  whose 
name  I  have  forgotten.  But  the  sun,  the  frost,  and  the 
rain  had  greatly  softened  its  barbarous  realism. 

Such  was  my  first  picture. 

And  the  next  ?  This  had  its  existence  only  in  my 
imagination.  I  have  often  seen  it,  always  the  same,  in 
my  dreams,  hanging  in  the  shadows  of  some  village 
sacristy,  full  of  a  spirit  of  simple  devotion. 

It  is  a  triptych,  the  Holy  Trinity  in  the  center,  the 
Virgin  and  angels  at  the  sides. 

Which  of  these  angels  is  it  who  has  led  me  a  hundred 
times  in  sleep  into  that  dusty  sacristy,  where  thou,  pict- 
ure of  my  dreams,  a  dream  thyself,  reposest  ?  And  I 
tremble  with  joy  when  I  see  thee  always  in  the  same 
place,  always  radiant  with  divine  love  ! 


128  THE    LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 


XLV. 

IT  was  in  1840,  during  one  of  my  vacations,  that  we 
took  dancing-lessons  in  the  large,  unfinished  parlor 
which  I  have  so  often  mentioned. 

My  uncle,  who  desired  to  neglect  nothing  that  might 
contribute  to  form  our  manners,  had  found  a  skillful  pro- 
fessor for  us — a  retired  soldier  who,  in  the  intervals  of 
leisure  left  him  by  his  military  duties,  had  caused  him- 
self to  be  initiated  into  the  mysteries  of  Terpsichore. 

His  household  was  established  on  a  very  simple  foot- 
ing, and  he  himself  carried  in  a  wheelbarrow  the  manure 
with  which  he  enriched  his  bit  of  land.  He  stopped  at 
our  house  during  the  expeditions  necessitated  by  the  re- 
quirements of  his  modest  gardening. 

And  I  can  assure  you  that  on  these  occasions  he  did 
not  exhale  the  perfume  of  the  rose.  I  can  still  see  his 
large  feet  in  their  heavy  shoes  dropping  manure  with 
every  step  he  took,  and  his  legs  covered  by  linen  trousers 
stained  with  suspicious-looking  patches,  executing  their 
pigeon -wings  and  capers. 

Ah  !  simple  days  !  His  wheelbarrow,  with  the  cask 
containing  the  manure,  would  remain  standing  before  our 
front  door  until  the  lesson  was  ended,  without  any  fear 
of  its  being  stolen. 

I  do  not  know  whether  this  manner  of  learning  danc- 
ing has  contributed  to  the  feeling,  but  from  that  time  I 
have  always  entertained  a  profound  indifference  for  that 
graceful  art. 

I  remember  also  that  during  this  same  vacation,  find- 
ing myself  alone  one  day  in  my  uncle's  study,  and  ran- 
sacking his  book-case  as  in  former  times,  I  opened  the 
portfolio  in  which  he  was  accustomed  to  keep  copies  of 
his  own  and  other  letters  which  were  of  any  importance. 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 


129 


What  was  my  astonishment  in  turning  over  one  of  the 
leaves  to  find — guess  what?  I  might  give  you  a  hundred 
chances,  and  you  would  never  guess  it — to  find  the  Abbe* 
Coco ! — the  Abbe*  Coco,  carefully  fastened  there  with  a 
pin. 

I  felt  as  if  I  had  fallen  from  the  clouds !  For  nothing 
in  the  world  would  I  have  dared  to  speak  to  my  uncle 
of  this  abominable  piece  of  irreverence  and  he  knew  all 
about  it,  and  he  had  never  said  a  word  to  me  !  And  he 
preserved  among  his  interesting  papers  the  impious  cari- 
cature that  had  drawn  upon  me  the  thunders  of  the 
clergy  ! 

Counting  on  the  indulgence  of  my  father  and  uncle, 
I  resolved  to  relate  the  whole  incident  to  them  at  dinner. 
Scarcely  had  I  pronounced  the  name  of  the  Abbe"  Coco, 
when  they  both  burst  into  a  loud  laugh,  but  their  merri- 
ment changed  to  indignation  when  I  reached  the  end  of 
the  story. 

"  Why  did  you  not  tell  us  of  this  before  ? "  they  said. 
"  Do  you  think  we  would  have  left  you  a  moment  longer 
in  that  abominable  place  ?  "  And  then  I  made  a  gen- 
eral confession.  I  told  them  of  my  mortification,  my  iso- 
lation, my  troubles,  the  incessant  espionage  from  which  I 
had  suffered,  without  forgetting  to  mention  the  rare 
moments  of  unalloyed  delight  in  the  drawing-class. 

My  father  and  uncle  decided  at  once  to  place  me  in 
the  College  of  Douai.  I  need  not  say  with  what  joy  I 
heard  of  this  resolution.  I  was  to  pass  at  Douai  three 
comparatively  happy  years.  My  entrance  to  the  college 
was  not  a  brilliant  one.  My  rustic  appearance  and  the 
manners  I  had  acquired  in  the  seminary,  of  which  I  had 
not  yet  been  able  to  rid  myself  completely,  made  me  the 
subject  of  many  a  jest.  I  thought  for  a  moment  that  my 
troubles  were  all  going  to  begin  over  again,  but  quite 
another  spirit  reigned  here.  Here  was  no  espionage. 
9 


130  THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 

Freedom  of  action  was  not  interfered  with,  and  liberty 
in  the  choice  of  friends  was  allowed. 

When  I  had  exchanged  a  few  vigorous  blows  with  the 
most  quarrelsome  of  the  boys,  I  had  no  longer  anything 
to  fear.  I  loved  my  companions  and  they  loved  me. 
The  yard  here  was  larger  and  a  part  of  it  was  planted 
with  trees  ;  and  the  buildings,  less  elevated  than  those 
around  the  seminary,  allowed  the  sunshine  freer  en- 
trance ;  while  in  place  of  the  Military  Hospital  the  muse- 
um presented  to  us  its  wide  high  gable  to  send  our 
balls  against. 

And  the  uniform,  with  its  shining  brass  buttons,  and 
the  boots,  and  the  strapped  trousers,  and  the  towns-peo- 
ple looking  at  us  with  admiring  glance  as  we  passed  by 
in  line,  our  steps  resounding  on  the  pavement ;  and  the 
band  of  music ;  and  the  lyre  which  I  proudly  displayed 
embroidered  in  gold  on  the  collar  of  my  coat ! — and  the 
loud-sounding  drum,  in  place  of  the  plaintive  bell  ;  and, 
above  all,  Art  ! 

We  occupied  the  ancient  building  of  the  Abbey  d'An- 
chin.  Like  a  cuckoo  bringing  up  its  fledglings  in  a  ring- 
dove's nest,  the  state  had  there  established  its  college. 
The  chapel,  formerly  as  large  as  a  church,  had  been  di- 
vided. One  part  of  it  was  still  devoted  to  worship,  and 
the  other  to  profane  uses — some  of  the  dormitories  and 
the  hall  of  design  being  there. 

This  vast  hall,  with  its  thick  walls  and  heavy  pillars, 
was  well  calculated  to  inspire  respect.  I  experienced 
a  profound  emotion  whenever  I  entered  it. 

There,  as  in  the  seminary,  were  displayed  eyes,  noses, 
and  mouths,  small,  medium-sized  and  large  faces ;  aca- 
demic figures.  There  I  beheld  you  again,  Moses,  Mor- 
decai,  and  Scipio,  and  you  also,  young  Raphaelesque 
girls,  with  your  ravishing  faces.  But  my  ambition  went 
further  than  this  now — as  far  as  the  hall  of  casts,  that 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST.  l^l 

could  be  seen  beyond,  smaller  than  this  one,  and  silent 
as  a  sanctuary.  I  walked  straight  thither  with  a  reso- 
lute step. 

When  I  entered  it  I  was  seized  with  a  sort  of  religious 
awe,  and  I  began  to  tremble  in  every  limb.  I  found 
myself  in  the  presence  of  Euripides,  of  Solon,  of  Plato, 
of  Homer ;  of  the  Laocoon,  writhing  forever  in  the  ser- 
pent's folds ;  and  of  Niobe,  forever  sending  up  to  heaven 
from  her  sightless  eyes  looks  of  inconsolable  grief. 

A  moment  afterward  the  drawing-master  entered  the 
room.  He  was  a  short,  robust  old  man,  brusque  and 
frank  in  his  manner.  He  looked  at  me  with  amazement. 
"  What  are  you  doing  here,  Baptist  ? "  he  said  to  me. 
11  You  are  a  new-comer.  Go  sit  down  yonder  before  the 
eyes  and  the  noses." 

I  had  been  told  beforehand  how  I  must  address  him, 
and  I  stammered,  "  I  beg  of  you,  papa,  to  let  me  prac- 
tice here."  "  Have  you  drawn  from  the  cast  ?  "  "  No, 
but  I  have  made  the  portraits  of  some  of  my  school- 
fellows." "  Very  well ;  sit  down  there  ;  we  shall  see." 
And  he  placed  before  me  the  head  of  one  of  the  sons  of 
Laocoon.  The  trial  resulted  favorably,  and  I  remained 
in  the  class. 

This  may  be  thought  a  strange  specimen  of  conver- 
sation between  pupil  and  professor,  and  yet  I  have  given 
it  word  for  word  as  it  took  place.  This  excellent  old 
man  addressed  all  his  pupils  in  the  second  person,  singu- 
lar, called  them  all  alike  "  Baptist,"  and  all  the  pupils 
addressed  him  in  the  second  person,  singular,  and  called 
him  *'  papa." 

My  fellow-pupils  and  the  inhabitants  of  Douai  of  my 
time  will  remember  Father  Wallet. 

We  loved  him  dearly,  and  the  familiarity  of  which  I 
have  given  an  example  detracted  nothing  from  the  respect 
with  which  he  inspired  us.  At  times  he  pretended  to 


132  THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST. 

be  terribly  angry,  and  dealt  about  blows  right  and  left, 
which  never  hit  any  one. 

I  think  he  was  not  without  some  genius,  which  he 
made  but  little  use  of.  He  was  at  once  a  disciple  of 
David  and  of  the  Romantic  School  of  Art.  He  organ- 
ized a  historical  fete  which  was  much  talked  of  in  the 
place,  the  entrance  to  Douai  of  Philip  the  Good.  These 
celebrations  of  historical  events  were  then  in  fashion. 
My  father  and  my  uncle,  a  year  later,  represented  in  our 
village  the  visit  of  Philip  II,  King  of  Spain,  to  Jean  de 
Montmorenci,  the  Lord  of  Courrieres,  who  sleeps  with 
folded  hands  on  his  tomb  in  the  church  there.  This 
celebration  was  a  complete  success.  The  brilliant  and 
well-drilled  procession  which  traversed  the  streets  of  our 
poor  commune  called  forth  the  acclamations  of  the  nu- 
merous citizens  of  Douai,  Lille,  and  Arras,  who  had 
come  there  to  laugh  at  it. 

Father  Wallet  watched  it  from  one  of  the  windows 
of  our  house,  and  Philip  II  was  very  proud  of  earning 
his  applause. 

As  for  me,  I  was  unable,  much  to  my  regret,  to  see 
this  cavalcade,  the  strict  rules  of  the  college  not  permit- 
ting it.  I  consoled  myself,  however,  by  playing  with  my 
school-fellows. 

A  word  in  regard  to  these  latter. 

Some  of  them,  among  others  General  Gary,  General 
Cornat,  General  Delbecque,  and  Ren6  Goblet,  one  of 
our  most  learned  statesmen,  now  occupy  brilliant  posi- 
tions ;  but  how  many  names  are  missing  from  the  roll ! 
The  estimable  Eduard  Blavier,  who  died  Inspector-Gen- 
eral of  Telegraphs ;  Louis  Duhem,  a  tender  soul  meant 
by  nature  for  a  poet,  and  whom  chance  made  a  custom- 
house officer  ;  and  Louis  Bauchet,  whom  I  met  in  Paris, 
where  he  had  entered  on  a  brilliant  career,  soon  alas  J 
to  be  cut  short  by  death.  Already  distinguished  as  a 


THE    LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 


133 


surgeon,  he  died  a  victim  to  duty,  at  the  age  of  thirty- 
nine,  from  the  results  of  a  wound  received  at  the  dis- 
secting-table.  At  his  funeral  I  saw  Velpeau,  who  loved 
him  like  a  son,  weeping  unrestrainedly.  He  had  mar- 
ried a  young  girl  of  Lower  Brittany,  connected  by  mar- 
riage with  my  family,  who  has  consecrated  her  life  to 
the  worship  of  his  memory. 


XLVI. 

IT  was  about  this  time  that  I  began  to  acquire  a  taste 
for  poetry. 

I  was  then  reading  Racine  and  La  Fontaine.  I  re- 
member a  line  of  Athalie  that  to  many  people  may  seem 
to  possess  no  special  merit,  but  which  enchanted  me : 

"  Et  du  temple  deja  1'aube  blanchit  le  faite." 

It  captivated  my  ear  by  its  melody  and  called  up  be- 
fore my  mind  a  charming  twilight  scene  bathed  in  a  soft 
and  tender  light. 

Then  I  made  an  attempt  at  rhyming. 

One  day  I  hurried  carelessly  through  my  Latin 
verses,  and  then  wrote  below  a^translation  of  them  into 
French  verse. 

The  professor  seemed  amused  at  first ;  he  read  aloud 
to  the  class  my  unfortunate  attempt  at  poetry,  accentu- 
ating comically  every  false  rhyme,  and  ended  by  impos- 
ing on  me  a  double  punishment  for  the  faults  in  my 
Latin  composition. 

Later  on,  fancying  myself  in  love,  I  gave  expression 
to  my  sentimental  sorrows  in  verse. 

At  fifteen  my  verses  were  despairing  and  pessimistic, 
and  shortly  afterward  I  sang  the  loss  of  all  my  illusions. 


134  THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 

Have  I  the  right,  then,  to  smile  at  the  young  poets  of 
twenty  whom  we  see  springing  up  on  all  sides  around 
us? 

My  father,  after  the  death  of  the  Duke  of  Duras  and 
the  sale  of  the  forest  of  Labroye,  entered  into  partner- 
ship with  two  natives  of  Lille,  for  the  purpose  of  buying 
the  forest  of  the  Amerois  at  Muno,  in  the  Belgian  Ar- 
dennes. He  had  been  unable  to  conquer  his  passion  for 
forests. 

He  lodged,  while  there,  at  the  house  of  some  excel- 
lent people,  for  whom  he  soon  conceived  a  friendship. 

One  day  he  brought  back  with  him  to  Courrieres  one 
of  the  sons,  named  Hippolite.  This  boy,  about  my  own 
age,  but  quicker  and  more  precocious  in  some  respects 
than  I  was,  spent  with  us  the  vacation  preceding  my  ad- 
mission to  the  College  of  Douai. 

He  often  spoke  to  me  of  his  native  place  and  of  a 
friend  whom  he  had  known  from  childhood,  named 
Florentine,  and  whom  he  loved  like  a  sister.  The  name 
of  this  young  girl,  continually  sounding  in  my  ears,  gave 
rise  to  many  a  vague  revery.  "  You  shall  see  how  pretty 
she  is.  You  must  fall  in  love  with  her,"  he  would  con- 
stantly say  to  me. 

And,  without  my  ever  having  seen  her,  she  filled  my 
thoughts.  Whenever  Hippolite  wanted  to  ask  a  favor 
from  me,  he  asked  it  in  Florentine's  name,  and  I  was 
sure  to  grant  it. 

As  for  him,  he  was  in  love  with  a  young  lady  who 
wore  velvet  bodices  and  who  rode  on  horseback. 

Nearly  two  years  had  passed  since  that  time,  how- 
ever. Hippolite  had  gone  back  to  Muno,  and  I  had 
quite  forgotten  this  romantic  fancy. 

During  my  vacation  in  1842  (I  was  then  fifteen)  it 
was  arranged  that  we  were  all  to  spend  a  month  at 
Muno. 


THE  LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST. 


135 


We  went  there  accordingly. 

The  parents  of  Hippolite  lived  about  three  quarters 
of  a  mile  distant  from  the  city,  in  a  house  standing  by 
itself  by  the  roadside,  whose  front  windows  looked  out 
on  green  fields,  through  which  ran  a  clear  brook  shaded 
by  willows  and  frequented  by  trout  and  crabs.  The 
house  was  sheltered  at  the  back  by  the  Monti,  a  hill 
covered  with  brush-wood  and  pink  and  white  heather. 
To  the  left  was  a  kitchen-garden.  In  front  were  a  leafy 
bower  and  a  row  of  hollyhocks.  This  sylvan  and  attract- 
ive abode  was  called  "The  Hermitage." 

The  first  person  to  meet  us  on  our  arrival  was  Made- 
moiselle Elisa,  the  eldest  sister  of  Hippolite.  She  was  a 
tall,  slender  girl  of  twenty-two,  with  a  queenly  air.  She 
was  very  dark,  with  pale-blue  eyes,  and  hair  black  as  the 
raven's  wing,  falling  down  her  cheeks  in  the  English 
fashion.  Her  father,  a  native  of  Provence,  had  given 
her  her  southern  beauty,  while  her  eyes  were  as  blue  as 
the  periwinkles  of  the  Ardennes. 

It  was  the  eve  of  the  Kermesse  of  Muno.  Hearing 
us  coming,  Elisa  had  left  the  bakehouse,  where  she  was 
making  tarts,  and  a  bit  of  the  dough  had  remained  cling- 
ing to  her  eyebrow. 

Let  me  say  here  that  a  noble  and  tender  heart  beat 
under  her  broad  breast.  She  is  now  old,  her  jet-black 
locks  are  white  with  the  snows  of  age,  and  profound  re- 
spect has  taken  the  place  of  the  admiration  she  then  ex- 
cited. 

This  noble  woman  has  never  wished  to  marry,  so  that 
she  might  be  able  to  dedicate  her  life  to  the  children  of 
her  brothers  and  sisters,  with  an  unselfish  devotion  of 
which  she  alone  seems  to  be  unconscious. 

We  were  fatigued  with  our  journey,  and  went  to  bed 
immediately  after  supper. 

In  the  morning,  when  I  saw  from  my  window  the  sun 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 

brightening  the  Monti,  and  lighting  up  the  white  mists 
that  hung  along  its  sides,  I  got  out  of  bed  quickly. 

I  went  down  to  the  kitchen  and  was  chatting  with 
Elisa,  who  was  occupied  in  some  household  task,  when 
the  door  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase  opened  and  a  young 
girl  made  her  appearance. 

"  Good-morning,  Florentine,"  said  Elisa. 

Florentine  !     It  was  she  ! 

I  can  not  describe  the  happiness  that  filled  my  heart 
when  I  heard  this  name,  that  had  formed  the  subject  of 
so  many  dreams. 

The  evening  before,  after  we  had  retired,  she  and  her 
mother  had  come  from  Carignan,  where  they  lived,  and 
she  had  slept  in  the  room  adjoining  mine. 

She  did  not  possess  the  brilliant  beauty  of  Elisa. 
She  was  about  sixteen,  and  was  short  and  slender,  with 
bright  chestnut  hair,  brown  eyes,  and  a  pale,  clear  com- 
plexion, like  a  tea-rose. 

But  by  a  sort  of  hallucination  she  appeared  to  me 
clothed  with  supernatural  splendor. 

Elisa,  taking  a  basket,  said  to  her,  "  Let  us  go  gath- 
er some  heather  for  the  chimney-piece  and  the  dinner- 
table." 

Behold  us  then,  crossing  the  Monti,  which  was 
wrapped  in  white  mists  produced  by  the  evaporation 
of  the  dew — silvery  mists  that  the  sun,  darting  his  rays 
through  the  forest  trees,  pierced  with  a  thousand  fiery 
arrows. 

Elisa  was  a  charming  picture,  seen  in  the  softened 
brilliancy  of  the  morning  light,  with  her  black  hair, 
pearly  with  dew,  her  yellow  handkerchief,  and  her  gay 
spirits,  to  which  she  gave  vent  in  snatches  of  merry 
songs. 

But  I  had  eyes  only  for  Florentine,  whose  blue  robe 
gleamed  in  the  sunshine  that  lingered  on  its  hem,  while 


THE  LIFE  OF   AN   ARTIST. 


137 


her  bright  hair  was  surrounded  by  an  aureole  of  gold  ; 
and  the  zenith  sent  down  its  pure  light  to  caress  her 
pearly  neck,  charmingly  shaded  by  the  down  on  the 
nape. 

She  went  along  gathering  the  heather,  and  I  followed 
enraptured,  and  I  thought  myself  desperately  in  love. 

One  may  be  in  love  without  knowing  it.  With  me 
the  contrary  was  the  case.  I  mistook  for  love  the  first 
ardors  of  an  impatient  imagination. 

This  fancy  was  to  vanish  like  the  golden  clouds  of 
dawn,  bright  harbingers  of  the  sun  that  is  soon  to  rise, 
but  it  has  left  with  me  a  passion  for  pink  and  white 
heather,  and  their  innumerable  little  bells  seem  to  me 
since  then  to  vibrate  with  a  thrill  of  love. 


XLVII. 

ONE  evening,  during  the  same  vacation,  my  brothers 
and  I  were  seated  around  the  lamp  in  the  dining-room, 
when  a  stranger  entered,  bringing  a  letter  of  introduction 
from  M.  D ,  the  notary,  of  whom  I  have  spoken. 

He  was  enveloped  in  a  large  black  cloak,  and  wore  a 
long  thick  beard,  something  which  we  had  never  before 
seen.  He  had  strongly  marked  features,  the  nose  straight 
and  slightly  turned  up  at  the  end,  the  arch  of  the  brow 
very  prominent,  and  heavy  eyebrows,  raised  toward  the 
temples,  shading  deep-blue  eyes.  His  handsome  face 
was  browned  by  the  sun. 

This  sudden  apparition  strongly  awakened  our  curi- 
osity. 

At  first  sight,  our  visitor  was  not  unlike  the  picture 

I  had  formed  in  my  mind  of  a  bandit-chief.  D 's 

letter  informed  us  that  this  gentleman  was  M.  Felix  de 


1 38  THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

Vigne,  a  painter,  and  a  professor  in  the  Academy  in 
Ghent.  A  learned  archaeologist,  he  had  just  published 
his  "  Painter's  Vade  Mecum,"  a  collection  of  the  cos- 
tumes and  weapons  of  the  middle  ages,  and  was  now 
preparing  a  work  on  the  trade  corporations  of  Flan- 
ders. 

He  had  heard  that  my  uncle  possessed  a  work  on 
French  costumes  of  divers  epochs,  and  he  had  come  to 
request  his  permission  to  examine  it. 

My  uncle  went  to  fetch  the  four  volumes  of  which 
this  work  consisted. 

We  thought  these  books  superb.  We  had  often 
looked  at  their  beautiful  colored  plates,  resplendent 
with  gold  and  silver,  and  had  not  a  doubt  of  the  ad- 
miration they  were  going  to  awaken  in  our  visitor's 
mind. 

De  Vigne  opened  the  first  volume  at  random,  and 
his  glance  fell  on  a  picture  of  Charlemagne  in  the  cos- 
tume of  the  fifteenth  century. 

He  smiled,  closed  the  book,  and  after  a  short  con- 
versation, excused  himself  and  took  his  leave. 

A  painter  !  He  was  a  painter  !  Ah  !  if  I  had  only 
dared  to  go  up  to  him,  and  tell  him  of  my  passion  for 
art,  perhaps  he  might  have  tried  to  influence  my  father 
and  my  uncle.  But  a  stupid  bashfulness  had  kept  my 
mouth  closed. 

And  he  was  gone  ! 

I  returned  sorrowfully  to  the  college,  where  Floren- 
tine and  De  Vigne's  visit  were  the  subject  of  my  reveries. 
The*figure  of  the  painter  presented  itself  to  my  romantic 
imagination  clothed  with  ideal  attributes,  and  grew  more 
and  more  somber  as  time  passed  on. 

I  forgot  my  sadness  for  the  time  in  the  drawing-class, 
when  I  saw  again  the  Laocoons,  the  Caracallar,  and  the 
Niobes,  those  old  friends  with  their  sightless  eyes. 


THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 


139 


During  the  vacation  of  1843,  mv  uncle,  returning 
from  a  journey  to  Lille,  found  himself  by  chance  seated 
beside  De  Vigne  in  the  famous  coach  of  Maximilian 
Robespierre,  whom  we  already  know. 

They  had  here  an  opportunity  to  become  better  ac- 
quainted with  each  other.  My  uncle  spoke  of  me  to 
the  painter,  and  to  attract  him  to  our  house  he  gave  him 
an  order  for  a  likeness  of  himself. 

De  Vigne  came  accordingly,  one  day,  with  his  box 
of  colors  and  his  canvas,  and  it  may  easily  be  imagined 
what  an  event  this  was  for  us.  There  were  perfumed 
essences,  delicate  oils  gleaming  in  the  light,  and  beauti- 
ful little  bladders  filled  with  paints  of  various  colors. 

With  what  devout  attention  I  followed  the  different 
stages  of  his  work — the  outlining,  the  rough  draught  in 
red  crayon,  the  sketch  that  changed  with  every  stroke  of 
the  brush  ! 

And  the  painter  himself,  too,  who,  when  I  first  saw 
him,  had  realized  my  idea  of  a  bandit,  was  wonderfully 
transformed  by  the  light  of  day. 

He  grew  almost  genial,  and,  notwithstanding  his  ter- 
rible beard,  was  much  less  imposing  in  appearance  than 
were  the  figures  in  the  garden  after  Fremy  had  re- 
painted them. 

I  showed  my  sketches  to  De  Vigne.  He  was  not 
greatly  pleased  with  my  drawings  from  the  cast,  although 
they  had  taken  the  first  prize  in  the  college. 

He  was  more  interested  in  my  portraits  in  pencil  and 
my  landscapes  copied  from  nature. 

He  proposed  to  my  father  and  uncle  to  send  me  to 
him  on  trial,  promising  to  give  a  definite  opinion  regard- 
ing me  after  I  had  studied  three  months  under  his  in- 
structions. 

Oh,  joy  !  my  uncle  and  my  father  consented ! 

I  went  to  my  room,  and,  seizing  my  class-books,  threw 


140  THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 

them  up  to  the  ceiling  twenty  times  in  succession,  until 
the  oldest  of  them  fell  in  tatters. 

Then  I  threw  into  the  fire  the  task  assigned  me  for 
the  vacation,  and  which  I  had  scarcely  begun.  This 
auto-da-fo  was  hardly  accomplished,  when  I  received  a 
letter  from  a  school-fellow  asking  me  to  lend  him  this 
task  in  order  to  copy  it. 

In  what  triumphant  terms  I  answered  him  that  hence- 
forth the  college  and  I  had  no  connection  with  each 
other,  and  that  I  was  going  to  enter  the  Royal  Academy 
at  Ghent ! 

I  arrived  in  that  city  on  the  1 5th  of  October,  1843. 


XLVIII. 

THERE  are  many  humble  painters  who  might  have 
become  great  artists  if  Fate  had  placed  them  in  circum- 
stances more  favorable  to  the  development  of  their  natu- 
ral gifts,  but  who  die  unknown  to  the  general  public, 
their  merits  recognized  only  by  a  limited  circle. 

High-minded  and  conscientious  in  the  performance 
of  their  obligations,  seeing  themselves  in  the  necessity 
of  providing  for  the  wants  of  the  family,  and  devoted  to 
their  domestic  duties,  they  are  not  free  to  enter  the 
arena  where  alone  fame  is  to  be  won. 

Their  first  pictures  have  had  some  success ;  the  be- 
ginning was  full  of  promise.  They  had  had  their  dreams 
of  a  glorious  future. 

But  they  had  neglected  to  take  into  account  the  no- 
ble weaknesses  of  their  nature. 

Obstacles  placed  there  by  their  affections  are  to  de- 
tain them  on  the  road  to  fame  at  every  step. 

And  in  the  unselfishness  of  their  hearts  they  will  see 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 


141 


their  rivals  attain  fame  and  fortune  without  a  pang  of 
envy,  while  they  still  continue  to  persevere  in  their  hum- 
ble labors. 

Their  efforts,  however,  are  not  altogether  fruitless. 
With  comparatively  easy  means,  hours  of  leisure  come. 

The  nest  is  built.  The  new  house  has  a  more  sunny 
outlook.  A  broader  stream  of  light  illumines  the  studio, 
larger  than  the  other  one. 

The  talents  which  had  caused  their  first  paintings  to 
be  admired,  stifled  for  a  time,  reappear  in  works  pro- 
duced in  a  more  vivifying  atmosphere,  and  the  artist  be- 
gins to  attract  attention. 

A  ray  of  fame  may  even  fall  upon  his  brow. 

He  is  able  to  give  himself  up  to  studies  long  inter- 
rupted. Real  progress,  surprising  at  his  age,  leads  to 
fresh  successes.  He  has  still  a  long  future  before  him. 

It  will  be  only  a  dream.  All  those  emotions,  all  this 
ardor,  like  the  warmth  of  a  St.  Martin's  summer,  only 
serve  to  shatter  still  more  an  organization  enfeebled  by 
long-continued  vigils,  and  the  artist  breaks  down  while 
apparently  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  health. 

Such  might  have  been  the  history  of  Fe*lix  de  Vigne. 


XLIX. 

NARROW  and  deep,  with  its  gable  dating  from  the 
sixteenth  century,  and  its  long  corridor  leading  to  the 
different  apartments,  to  the  small  yard,  and  to  the  gar- 
den, the  house  in  which  De  Vigne  lived  in  1843,  number 
8,  Rue  de  la  Line,  was  situated  in  one  of  the  quietest 
quarters  of  the  city. 

I  was  cordially  received  there. 

Ghent  impressed  me  greatly.     I  had  not  at  that  time 


142 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 


seen  Paris.  In  a  journey  I  had  made  the  preceding 
year  I  had  caught  a  hasty  glimpse  of  the  principal  cities 
of  Belgium — Liege,  Louvain,  Antwerp,  Ostend,  and  Brus- 
sels— where,  for  the  first  time,  I  visited  an  exhibition  of 
paintings,  for  me  the  most  glorious  of  sights. 

I  can  still  see  all  the  beautiful  colors,  more  beautiful 
even  than  those  of  Nature  itself,  of  those  lovely  com- 
plexions so  smooth  and  rosy  ;  of  those  heavenly  blue 
eyes,  of  those  military  epaulets  so  brilliant  that  it  was 
almost  a  miracle  that  they  could  have  been  made  to 
shine  so  brightly ;  and  those  large  oxen  that  look  at  you 
with  their  melancholy  eyes,  and  those  well-combed  sheep, 
and  those  horseshoes  that  looked  so  real,  hidden  in  the 
corners  of  the  pictures  ;  and  those  drops  of  water  that 
tremble  on  the  thistles;  and,  in  fine,  of  all  those  beau- 
tiful yellows,  brilliant  greens,  and  flaming  reds.  How 
dingy  the  pictures  of  Rubens,  which  I  had  seen  at  Ant- 
werp, notwithstanding  the  profound  admiration  I  enter- 
tained for  them,  appeared  to  me  beside  these  marvels  ! 

The  city  of  Ghent  seemed  to  me  magnificent.  I 
felt  proud  and  happy  to  be  able  to  walk  at  will  through 
the  streets  of  this  Flemish  Venice,  with  its  innumerable 
bridges,  its  old  wharves  crowded  with  merchandise,  its 
ancient  houses,  some  of  which  look  down  upon  you 
from  the  middle  ages,  and  whose  trembling  images  are 
reflected  from  the  waters  of  the  canals,  where  glide 
countless  boats. 

I  never  tired  of  looking  at  all  these  sights.  I  loved 
its  monuments,  its  H6tel  de  Ville,  in  the  flamboyant 
style,  its  court-house,  and  its  Gothic  churches,  with 
their  chapels,  in  the  style  of  the  Renaissance,  where, 
surrounded  by  the  somber  grandeur  of  the  Spaniards, 
are  old  pictures  of  the  early  Flemish  school,  at  once 
sensual  and  devout. 

The  school  of  Ghent,  which  prides  itself  on  having 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 


143 


given  to  the  world  the  brothers  Van  Eyck,  the  Gaspards 
de  Grayer,  and  the  Rooses,  had  greatly  declined  since 
the  time  in  which  De  Vigne  had  attained  his  first  suc- 
cess. 

A  pupil  of  Paclinck,  who  had  followed  at  Brussels, 
in  consonance  with  the  bent  of  his  genius,  in  the  steps 
of  his  master  David,  whose  fame  was  then  on  the  wane, 
De  Vigne  had  spent  some  time  in  Paris  whence  he  re- 
turned to  his  native  city,  his  mind  confused  by  con- 
tradictory teachings.  On  the  one  hand,  he  had  learned 
to  strive  after  a  grace  of  form  like  that  of  the  Apollo 
Belvedere,  the  Diana,  and  the  Venus  di  Medicis,  while 
he  was  fascinated  by  the  brilliancy  of  coloring  of  the 
Romantic  school  on  the  other. 

The  two  currents  of  opinion  which  divided  Paris, 
flowing  in  opposite  directions,  the  one  toward  Ingres, 
the  other  toward  Delacroix,  united  in  Belgium  in  a 
bastard  school  of  art,  formed  of  an  expressionless  eclec- 
ticism. 

Louis  Gallait  himself,  the  best  painter  of  this  school, 
was  a  compound  of  Deveria,  Paul  Delaroche,  and  Robert  - 
Fleury. 

The  bitter  dissension  which  caused  these  visions, 
concerned,  for  the  most  part,  insignificant  details.  I 
have  never  seen  mediocrity  arouse  more  acrimonious  dis- 
putes. 

Antwerp  believed  that  the  glorious  days  of  Rubens 
had  returned. 

They  thought  they  had  rediscovered  the  coloring  of 
the  ancients,  while  uniting  with  it  a  grace  of  form  copied 
from  the  antique. 

They  imitated  the  painters  of  the  old  Flemish  school, 
thinking  they  were  free  from  their  heaviness  of  style, 
and  had  improved,  by  exaggerating  it,  the  splendor  of 
their  coloring. 


144 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 


They  sought  inspiration  in  the  inferior  works  of 
Rubens,  those  most  resembling  porcelain,  as  being  the 
most  beautiful,  and  finding  there  glowing  tints,  they 
learned  to  mix  the  smooth  with  the  rough  style  of  paint- 
ing to  obtain  transparency  in  the  flesh-tints,  so  that  all 
the  faces  had  the  appearance  of  being  flayed  on  one 
side.  A  horrible  sight ! 

Add  to  this,  in  the  case  of  the  historical  painters,  a 
sort  of  insipid  sentimentalism,  which  showed  itself  in 
their  pictures  in  tearful  eyes  and  gaping  mouths,  and,  in 
the  case  of  those  who  drew  their  inspiration  from  the 
old  Dutch  painters,  a  sort  of  peurile  jocoseness.  The 
public  flocked  to  the  exhibitions  without  knowing  any- 
thing about  art. 

They  went  into  raptures  over  the  childish  tricks  of 
still-life  deception. 

They  spoke  only  of  "  skillfulness  of  execution," 
"transparency,"  and  "  warm  tones." 

The  landscape-painters  had  a  regular  system  of  de- 
grading their  backgrounds  which  they  threw  back, 
mechanically,  painting  them  in  bluer  and  bluer  tones, 
until  they  at  last  faded  into  the  sky.  I  have  seen  a 
landscape-painter  work  during  a  whole  sitting  at  a  little 
bit  of  his  picture,  while  the  rest  of  the  canvas  was  cov- 
ered with  a  curtain,  in  order  to  protect  it  from  the  dust. 
Why  consider  the  general  effect  of  the  picture  ? 

What  they  failed  to  study  was  the  sunlight,  with  its 
solemn  splendors  and  its  thousand  caprices  ;  the  rela- 
tion of  the  parts  to  the  whole,  and  variety  of  effect  and 
execution,  according  to  the  sentiment  of  the  subject. 

I  hope  the  Belgians,  and  especially  the  people  of 
Ghent,  will  forgive  me  for  the  frankness  of  these  words. 
They  have  made  great  progress  since  that  time,  and 
their  enlightened  painters  and  connoisseurs,  far  from 
being  offended  by  them,  share  my  opinions. 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 


145 


WHEN  I  arrived  in  Ghent,  I  found  it  still  affected  by 
the  impression  produced  by  the  Grand  Triennial  Exhi- 
bition of  the  Fine  Arts,  which  had  taken  place  there  the 
preceding  year,  and  in  which  Verboeckhoven  had  won 
laurels  from  the  artists  and  connoisseurs  of  Ghent. 

Louis  Gallait  had  exhibited  there  his  large  painting, 
"  The  Abdication  of  Charles  V."  Universally  admired, 
he  was  even  thought  by  many  to  be  the  equal  of 
Rubens. 

Immediately  after  him,  in  the  estimation  of  the  public, 
came  Wappers  and  De  Keyser.  These  were  the  trinity 
that  presided  over  the  Belgian  school  of  art. 

Opinions  were  divided,  however,  regarding  the  com- 
parative merit  of  these  two  latter  artists,  and  the  slight 
differences  between  them  were  made  the  subject  of  bitter 
disputes.  "  What  boldness,  what  admirable  coloring  in 
the  paintings  of  Wappers !  "  the  partisans  of  the  former 
would  say ;  to  which  those  of  the  latter  would  respond, 
"  What  delicacy  of  form,  what  feeling,  in  the  paintings 
of  De  Keyser  !  " 

Alas  !  hardly  any  one  ever  mentions  the  name  of 
either  of  them  now. 

At  this  same  exhibition  De  Vigne  had  attained  a 
comparative  success  with  a  triptych,  "  The  Three  Ages 
of  Woman,'*  a  picture  afterward  purchased  by  the 
king. 

The  Society  of  Fine  Arts  also  held  a  small  exhibition 
every  year,  of  the  works  of  local  artists,  where  I  had  an 
opportunity  of  seeing  specimens  of  the  crude  style  of 
art.  I  must  confess  that  I  admired  some  among  them 
that  I  would  now  think  detestable. 

How  charming  some  of  those  pictures  seemed  to  my 
10 


146  THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST. 

simple  and  ignorant  eyes  !  I  occasionally  meet  with 
pictures  like  them  now,  in  walking  through  the  museums 
of  small  towns.  They  repose  there,  antiquated,  mediocre, 
dingy,  sticky,  dull,  and  cracked  in  curves,  as  happens, 
why  I  know  not,  to  provincial  pictures. 

How  have  you  fallen  in  my  estimation,  O  painters 
who  then  enchanted  me — Gernaert,  Van  Maldeghem, 
and  you,  Van  Schendel,  who  lighted  up  with  such  vivid 
flames  the  ruddy  countenances  of  women  selling  vege- 
tables, in  dark  and  musty  markets,  where  a  workman 
would  occasionally  be  seen  wheeling  his  barrow,  his  face 
illuminated  by  a  wonderful  ray  of  moonlight,  reflected 
from  the  shining  peak  of  his  cap  ! 

Such  was  the  environment  in  which  De  Vigne  lived. 

One  of  the  first  pictures  which  I  saw  him  paint  was 
the  portrait  of  some  great  lady  visiting  Hemmling  to 
dress  the  shrine  of  St.  Ursula.  She  was  represented 
wearing  the  hennin,  pointed  shoes,  and  a  robe  of  cloth- 
of-gold. 

De  Vigne  was  remarkable  for  the  graceful  folds  of 
his  draperies  and  the  skill  with  which  he  painted  the 
lights  reflected  from  precious  stones  and  the  gleam  of 
gold. 

He  painted  this  picture  by  fits  and  starts,  constantly 
interrupted  by  his  lessons,  and  having  to  take  off  and 
put  on  again  continually  his  green-and-black  Scotch 
plaid  dressing-gown,  a  style  of  garment  which  De 
Winne  and  I  had  also  adopted  for  our  working  hours. 

This  is  the  first  time  I  have  had  occasion  to  mention 
Lie*vin  de  Winne,  an  artist  who  was  to  occupy,  later,  a 
conspicuous  place  among  the  painters  of  the  Belgian 
school,  and  whom  I  was  soon  to  love  like  a  brother. 
Nothing  at  this  time  foretold  the  brilliant  future  that 
awaited  him. 

For  the  student  of  those  days  was  far  from  being  the 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST.  147 

great  artist  whose  gayety  of  spirits  made  him,  later  on, 
so  delightful  a  companion. 

He  did  not  then  wear  his  blonde  hair  in  those  long 
locks  that  he  has  since  adopted,  and  which  he  throws 
back  with  the  gesture  so  familiar  to  his  friends  ;  his  face 
was  not  then,  as  later,  rosy  and  lighted  up  by  an  ex- 
pression that  made  it  seem  beautiful,  vaguely  recalling 
that  of  Van  Dyck.  No,  his  face  was  thin,  his  air  mel- 
ancholy, his  head  bent.  With  his  long  nose  and  short, 
reddish  hair,  he  seemed  almost  ugly.  He  was  shy  in 
the  extreme,  disposed  to  gloom,  painting  in  silence,  and 
at  times  sensitively  morbid. 

For,  although  grateful  and  affectionate  by  nature, 
his  pride  caused  him  to  suffer  keenly  ;  he  had,  too,  met 
with  many  disappointments  in  his  affections. 

Brought  up  in  easy  circumstances,  after  seeing  his 
father  and  two  lovely  young  sisters  die,  he  had  witnessed 
the  ruin  of  his  family. 

At  twenty  years  of  age  he  found  himself  penniless 
and  under  the  necessity  of  providing  for  two  other 
sisters,  who  were  then  in  the  convent  completing  their 
education. 

The  eldest  of  his  brothers  had  gone  away,  no  one 
knew  where  ;  another  was  earning  a  livelihood  in  Paris. 
His  family,  at  one  time  consisting  of  eleven  members, 
had  been  dispersed  by  misfortune  or  death.  His  mother 
had  been  a  woman  of  great  piety,  and  his  elder  sisters 
had  died,  it  was  said,  like  saints.  Their  names,  Theresa 
and  Monica,  seemed  to  predestine  them  to  mysticism. 

Such  was  the  situation  of  the  unfortunate  Lievin. 

Felix  de  Vigne,  who  for  some  time  had  aided  him 
with  his  advice,  profoundly  touched  by  these  unmerited 
misfortunes,  received  him  into  the  bosom  of  his  family, 
taught  him  his  art,  and  was  henceforward  a  second 
father  to  him. 


I48  THE  LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

On  my  entrance  to  the  studio,  my  attention  was  im- 
mediately attracted  by  one  of  the  students,  whose  im- 
passive countenance,  adorned  by  a  red  beard,  was  sur- 
mounted by  a  high  black  woolen  cap.  I  watched  him 
while  he  painted.  He  tried  all  the  tints  on  his  palette, 
which  was  covered  with  a  countless  number  of  little 
hillocks  of  paint.  He  turned  round  at  my  entrance  and 
said  to  me,  "  Painting  is  a  work  that  requires  patience." 
He  gave  good  proof  of  this. 

The  picture  on  which  he  was  working  represented 
the  painter  Breughel,  the  elder,  who  was  accustomed  to 
keep  count  of  the  lies  his  servant  told  him  by  cutting  a 
notch  in  a  stick,  for  every  lie  making  one  of  these 
notches. 

The  legend  says  that  he  had  promised  to  marry  her 
if,  at  the  end  of  a  certain  time,  the  stick  were  not  com- 
pletely covered  with  notches !  What  was  the  end  of  the 
story  ? 

The  pendent  to  this  picture,  sketched  in  chalk,  on 
the  opposite  wall,  answered  the  question.  It  repre- 
sented Breughel  imitating  the  example  of  Abraham  with 
regard  to  Hagar,  and  sending  away  the  unhappy  serv- 
ant, who  was  drying  her  tears  in  the  corner  of  her  apron. 
He  is  pointing  angrily  to  the  stick,  completely  covered 
with  notches. 

There  worked  with  us  also  a  young  French  girl, 

Mademoiselle  I.  T .  She  had  agreeable  manners, 

was  somewhat  of  a  coquette,  and  had  a  frank  and  care- 
less disposition.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a  retired  sol- 
dier of  the  Empire,  who  lived  in  Ghent. 

She  had  but  little  talent  for  painting,  and  we  augured 
an  obscure  future  for  her.  She  was  destined,  however, 
to  an  unhappy  celebrity.  Fifteen  or  sixteen  years  later 
the  public  was  to  hear  of  her,  when  in  the  judicial  rec- 
ords these  terrible  words  appeared :  "  In  a  bottle  on 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 

the  table  of  the  praetorium  are  the  entrails  of  the 
victim  !  "  for  she  was  the  unfortunate  Madame  de  Pauw, 
who  was  poisoned  by  a  well-known  physician,  con- 
demned to  expiate  his  crime  on  the  scaffold. 

Poor  De  Winne,  melancholy  enough  already,  having 
committed  the  folly  of  falling  in  love  with  Mademoiselle 

T >  grew  so  gloomy  that  we  called  him  "  Cousin  Brou- 

illard,"  *  the  name  of  one  of  Paul  de  Kock's  characters. 

I  can  still  hear  him  sighing. 

I  had  already  begun  to  like  my  new  fellow-student, 
and  I  did  my  best  to  console  him  for  his  sorrows. 

He  received  my  friendly  attempts  at  consolation 
with  gratitude.  It  was  in  vain  that  I  tried  to  make  him 
share  in  my  amusements,  however,  which  were  some- 
what expensive  ;  it  was  in  vain  that  I  talked  to  him  of 
my  raptures  at  the  theatre  on  Sundays,  where  Albert, f 
the  wonderful  tenor,  was  singing  to  applauding  crowds. 
I  could  never  prevail  upon  him  to  accompany  me. 

The  only  diversions  he  permitted  himself  were  our 
excursions  into  the  country. 

Now  that  you  are  no  more,  friend  Lievin,  I  can  not 
recall  those  excursions  without  deep  emotion. 

We  would  turn  our  canvases  toward  the  wall,  clean 
our  palettes  and  our  brushes,  and  set  off  in  the  sunny 
afternoon — sunny  with  the  sunshine  of  youth,  that  will 
shine  for  us  never  again  ! 

We  would  walk  on,  admiring  every  new  sight,  and 
talking  of  those  nothings  that  make  the  tears  start  when 
we  recall  them  later  on,  until  we  came  to  the  city  gate, 
where,  under  the  blue  sky,  the  plain  stretched  far  away 
before  us. 

On  we  walked.  In  the  tea-gardens,  under  leafy  bow- 
ers, stood  tables  of  worm-eaten  wood.  Hunger,  the 

*  Fog.  f  This  tenor  is  still  well  remembered  in  Belgium. 


150  THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 

pleasant  hunger  of  youth,  soon  made  itself  felt.     Oh, 
the  savory  repasts,  washed  down  with  Flemish  beer ! 

We  confided  all  the  tender  secrets  of  our  hearts  to 
each  other  ;  the  melancholy  Lievin  grew  gay  for  a  mo- 
ment. And,  returning,  we  would  watch  the  sun  sink, 
large  and  red,  behind  the  grassy  plains. 

Next  day  we  would  resume  our  painting. 

Lievin  ground  his  colors  himself,  and  would  paint 
some  banner  for  a  procession,  or  some  Oriental  picture 
for  the  convent  where  his  sisters  were,  or  some  weeping 
Virgin  dressed  in  a  white  satin  robe,  with  a  mantle  of 
Prussian  blue  showing  against  the  eternal  yellow  back- 
ground we  knew  so  well ;  for  he  had  a  number  of  pious 
patrons.  And  then  he  would  paint  little  pictures  whose 
subjects  alone  are  sufficient  evidence  of  their  innocent 
character  —  An  Old  Man  Skinning  an  Eel,  An  Old 
Woman  Grinding  her  Coffee,  A  Jew  Selling  Trinkets, 
Rose  and  Violet,  The  First  Communion  Postponed. 

Who  would  have  divined,  in  these  puerile  creations, 
the  touch  of  the  artist,  at  once  vigorous  and  tender,  who 
was  one  day  to  depict  with  so  much  skill  every  emotion 
of  the  human  countenance  ? 

Meanwhile,  we  rallied  him  on  his  melancholy,  and 
tried  to  enliven  him  a  little. 

Sometimes  he  would  whistle  while  he  painted,  and 
whistle  discordantly — not  because  he  had  ro  ear  for 
music,  but  through  absent-mindedness,  habit  making 
him  always  return  to  his  favorite  airs,  "  The  Little  Flower 
of  the  Meadows,"  and  "  Yes,  Monsieur,"  a  silly  song  then 
in  vogue. 

As  for  Felix  De  Vigne,  he  sang  agreeably,  accompa- 
nying himself  on  the  guitar.  Moved  by  the  sounds  of 
this  sentimental  instrument,  De  Winne  would  cast  more 

languishing  glances  than  ever  at  Mademoiselle  T , 

and  redouble  his  sighs. 


THE    LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 


LI. 

IN  the  evening  we  went  to  the  Academy. 

A  new  director  was  endeavoring  to  raise  it  from  the 
state  of  decadence  into  which  his  predecessors,  men 
without  either  energy  or  talent,  had  allowed  it  to  fall. 

His  name  was  Vanderhaert,  and  he  was  the  brother- 
in-law  of  our  great  sculptor,  Rude. 

A  mediocre  painter,  but  a  skillful  draughtsman,  he 
threw  a  vast  amount  of  energy  into  his  teaching.  He 
explained  with  great  clearness  the  play  of  the  muscles, 
the  planes  and  the  different  angles  on  which  forms,  even 
the  most  rounded,  are  constructed. 

He  had  an  enthusiastic  admiration  for  the  best  works 
of  the  old  masters,  and  his  ardor,  which  was  contagious, 
had  a  very  beneficial  effect  upon  us. 

De  Vigne  was  also  a  professor  in  the  Academy,  but, 
as  he  was  very  modest,  one  of  the  lower  classes  was  as- 
signed to  him ;  and  in  this  way  he  was  often  imposed 
upon.  He  taught  also  at  the  Athenaeum,  and  gave  pri- 
vate lessons  besides.  What  time  remained  for  his  art? 
But  he  must  live,  and  he  had  his  children  to  bring  up. 

Notwithstanding  all  this,  he  was  cheerful. 

He  sometimes  worked  until  midnight  on  the  plates 
for  his  works,  which  he  himself  engraved. 

In  1849,  when  the  grand  historical/^,  which  we  have 
mentioned,  took  place  in  Ghent — a  fete  still  remembered 
in  the  country — and  which  outshone  everything  of  the 
kind  ever  attempted  before,  he  was  the  real  organizer  of 
the  pageant.  He  not  only  organized  it,  but  he  designed 
all  the  costumes  and  planned  the  effects  himself.  For 
whole  weeks  his  studio  was  transformed  into  a  sewing- 
room.  When  he  sent  the  account  of  the  expense  in- 
curred to  the  authorities  of  the  city,  he  was  too  modest 


152  THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

to  include  the  fee  for  his  own  services.  It  was  not  per- 
ceived, but  he  never  mentioned  the  matter  to  any  one 
outside  his  family. 

The  life  at  this  household  was  mildly  austere.  Each 
one  pursued  his  occupation  in  silence.  Every  evening 
Elodie,  Edmond,  Jules,  and  later  on  Georges,  before 
going  to  bed  would  come  and  ask  their  father's  bless- 
ing, which  he  would  bestow  upon  them  in  the  episco- 
pal fashion,  making  the  sign  of  the  cross  on  their  fore- 
heads with  his  thumb. 

A  recent  loss,  the  death  of  two  charming  children, 
El£onore  and  Felix,  both  about  four  years  old,  made 
this  household  still  more  gloomy. 

Their  mother,  an  estimable  woman,  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  Philippe  Ave,  who  had  gained  the  first  prize  for 
the  violin  at  the  Conservatory  of  Paris. 

He  was  a  native  of  Hondscott  in  France,  and  his 
death  took  place  in  Ghent,  where  he  had  established 
himself  shortly  after  his  marriage. 

In  this  house  I  felt  as  if  I  were  among  my  own  fam- 
ily, and  I  had  a  strong  attachment  for  the  children,  who 
reciprocated  my  affection. 

The  eldest,  Elodie,  was  a  gentle  child,  in  whose  blue 
eyes,  shaded  by  long,  silken  lashes,  there  already  shone 
a  mysterious  charm.  She  went  about  the  house  silent- 
ly, gliding  rather  than  walking.  She  held  her  fragile 
figure  thrown  slightly  backward,  and  her  delicately  out- 
lined face,  resembling  that  of  one  of  the  angels  in  a 
Gothic  cathedral,  inclined  forward,  as  if  bending  un- 
der the  weight  of  a  prematurely  thoughtful  brow.  She 
seemed  a  child  of  the  middle  ages,  of  which  her  father 
had  made  so  profound  a  study.  She  was  about  seven 
years  old,  and  I  danced  her  on  my  knees. 

Her  sweet,  childish  caresses  inspired  me  with  a  feel- 
ing that  was  almost  paternal. 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 


153 


Felix  de  Vigne,  born  on  the  i6th  of  March,  1806, 
was  the  eldest  of  six  children — four  boys  and  two  girls. 

The  second  son,  Pierre,  and  the  third,  Edouard,  the 
one  a  sculptor,  the  other  a  landscape-painter,  had  each 
gained  the  Prix  de  Rome.  Alexandre,  the  youngest  of 
the  boys,  was  a  musician.  Five  or  six  of  their  cousins 
were  also  musicians. 

Truly  a  family  of  artists  ! 

It  is  unnecessary  for  me  to  mention  here  the  place 
now  occupied  among  Belgian  sculptors  by  Paul  de 
Vigne,  the  son  of  Pierre,  who,  at  our  Great  Exposition 
in  1889,  obtained  a  grand  prize  of  honor 

Felix  had  begun  to  earn  a  reputation  for  himself  by 
pictures  of  an  order  somewhat  more  elevated  than  the 
childish  productions  I  have  mentioned.  The  first  paint- 
ing which  brought  him  into  note  represents  Mary  of 
Burgundy  imploring  the  pardon  of  Hugonnet  and  Am- 
bercourt,  in  the  public  square  of  Ghent,  the  Marche 
.du  Vendredi.  An  excited  crowd  surround  the  scaffold, 
which  the  condemned  men  are  ascending,  and  on  which 
the  executioner,  clad  in  red,  and  holding  his  axe  in  his 
hand,  is  standing. 

The  figure  of  Mary  of  Burgundy,  who  is  represent- 
ed kneeling,  and  clad  in  a  black  robe  embroidered  with 
silver,  and  a  long  mantle  of  cloth-of-gold,  the  head, 
covered  with  the  hennin,  thrown  backward,  displaying 
the  youthful  countenance  to  view,  and  the  hands  out- 
stretched in  supplication,  seemed  to  me  very  touching. 

This  picture  was  destroyed  in  a  fire. 


154 


THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 


LII. 


WHEN  I  left  Ghent,  in  1846,  before  proceeding  to 
Paris,  I  went  to  Antwerp,  and  remained  there  five  or  six 
weeks. 

I  put  up  at  the  Hotel  Rubens,  in  the  Place  Verte,  di- 
rectly below  the  cathedral. 

I  have  a  remembrance  of  sleepless  nights  spent  in 
cursing  the  deafening  noise  of  its  chime  of  bells,  which 
recommenced  every  quarter  of  an  hour. 

In  the  daytime,  however,  nothing  could  be  more 
cheerful  than  their  showers  of  clear  and  silvery  notes, 
especially  on  Sundays,  which  were  also/^-days,  when 
banners  and  pennants  floated  on  the  breeze. 

I  entered  my  name  at  the  Academy,  directed  by  the 
illustrious  Wappers. 

He  was  a  stout  man,  with  brusque  and  familiar  man- 
ners, which  those  who  have  known  our  painter  Couture 
can  easily  picture  to  themselves. 

He  wore  ostentatiously  the  honors  of  a  reputation 
which  was  beyond  his  merits. 

At  bottom,  however,  he  was  a  very  worthy  man. 

His  teaching  was  not  as  valuable  as  that  of  Vander- 
haert.  He  limited  himself  to  showing  how  to  obtain  by 
measurement  the  proportions  of  the  figure,  and  to  enun- 
ciating aphorisms  like  the  following  :  "  An  artist,  who 
makes  his  tones  too  dark  in  drawing  will  always  make 
them  too  gray  in  painting."  He  taught  the  students  who 
were  learning  painting  to  work  in  the  grounds  and  the 
tones  with  touches  as  distinct  as  those  of  a  mosaic,  and 
to  paint  the  flesh-tints  in  bright  lakes,  the  half-tints  of  a 
greenish-gray,  and  the  lights  in  yellow  and  pink,  to  give  a 
lifelike  expression.  It  will  be  seen  that  our  impression- 
ists have  invented  nothing  new. 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST.  j^ 

I  soon  quitted  the  Academy  attracted  by  the  great 
painter  with  whose  name  Antwerp  resounds. 

I  went  to  the  museum  to  study  Rubens. 

I  there  copied  the  u  Christ  on  the  Straw." 

It  will  be  seen  by  this  that  I  was  at  that  time  at- 
tracted more  by  the  faults  of  the  painter  than  by  his 
beauties.  Naturally,  I  exaggerated  in  my  copies  the 
carnations,  making  them  still  brighter  and  more  porce- 
lain-like than  they  were  in  the  original. 

I  never  suspected  that  the  greatest  work  of  Rubens 
was  at  Ghent,  for  the  painting  was  at  that  time  hung  in 
so  bad  a  light,  between  two  windows  in  the  cathedral, 
that  it  could  scarcely  be  seen.  The  picture  I  refer  to  is 
the  "  Calling  of  St.  Bavon." 

But  I  was  not  always  painting  in  the  museum  at  Ant- 
werp, and  my  hours  of  idleness  were  more  profitable 
than  my  so-called  working  hours. 

In  this  unpretending  gallery,  with  its  austere  light, 
and  its  plain  and  simple  arrangements,  are  to  be  found 
some  masterpieces,  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd  of  labored 
and  dull  canvases  of  the  Contortionist  period,  from 
Breughel  to  Pourbus,  that  here  display  their  smooth  and 
puffy  flesh  and  distorted  anatomy,  depicted  with  the  cold 
realism  of  the  dissecting-table. 

What  a  simple  and  intense  life  do  the  Memlings,  the 
Van  Eycks,  the  Quentin-Matsys,  and,  above  all,  the 
portraits  and  the  "  Seven  Sacraments  "  of  Roger  Vander 
Weyden,  breathe  in  the  midst  of  the  limbo  of  the  Flemish 
Renaissance,  dispelled  by  the  triumphant  splendors  of 
Rubens  ! 

And  I  imbibed,  without  knowing  it,  the  chaste  senti- 
ment of  Gothic  art. 

The  "  Dead  Christ  "  of  Van  Dyck  also  made  a  pro- 
found impression  upon  me. 

After  leaving   the  museum   I   delighted  to  wander 


156  THE  LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

about  this  devout  city  whose  picturesque  streets  display 
at  every  corner  Virgins,  gorgeous  in  the  midst  of  their 
golden  clouds,  or  to  plunge  into  mystic  reveries  at  the 
hour  of  evening  prayers,  seated  in  Notre  Dame  when  the 
celestrial  strains  of  the  organ  rose  in  swelling  waves  to 
the  lofty  vaulted  roof,  then  returned  to  mingle  softly, 
like  seraphic  echoes,  with  the  voices  of  the  long  proces- 
sion of  white-robed  virgins,  moving  with  downcast  eyes 
among  the  gleaming  lights  of  tapers  and  the  clouds  of 
the  incense.  These  chants,  this  religious  pomp,  in- 
toxicated my  senses,  and  I  felt  stir  within  me  some- 
thing of  the  pure  joy  I  had  felt  the  first  time  I  saw 
my  little  companions  of  St.  Bertin  kneeling  to  receive 
their  first  communion. 


LIII. 

THE  close  of  this  year  was  gloomy  indeed. 

On  leaving  Antwerp  I  contracted  a  cold  on  the  chest, 
which  developed  into  chronic  bronchitis. 

My  father  came  to  take  me  home  with  him,  and  I 
learned  afterward  that  when  we  were  gone  my  worthy 
friends  had  shed  tears,  thinking  they  would  never  see 
me  again.  De  Vigne  had  painted  my  portrait  some  days 
previously,  that  he  might  have  a  souvenir  of  me. 

I  thought  myself  doomed.  To  add  to  my  inquietude, 
I  found  my  father  greatly  changed.  For  a  year  past  his 
formerly  robust  health  had  been  declining  day  by  day. 
Seeing  him  constantly,  no  one  had  noticed  this  at  first. 
He  did  not  complain.  Some  of  our  friends,  alarmed  at 
the  change  in  his  appearance,  drew  the  attention  of  the 
family  to  it.  He  would  not  hear  of  calling  in  a  physi- 
cian, but  it  was  necessary  to  have  recourse  to  one  at 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST.  i$~- 

last.  My  father  went  from  bad  to  worse,  notwithstand- 
ing the  remedies  he  took.  His  complexion  turned  very 
yellow.  Instead  of  sending  him  to  Vichy — fatal  error  ! 
—they  had  bled  him. 

Anxious  about  each  other,  as  we  were,  the  journey 
from  Ghent  to  Courrieres  was  a  very  sad  one. 

It  was  now  the  end  of  autumn. 

The  winter  was  glorious.  I  have  a  remembrance  of 
cold,  bright  days,  when  everything  sparkled  with  hoar- 
frost. Kind  Nature  thus  threw  a  little  brightness  over 
our  sad  household,  formerly  so  full  of  life  ! 

My  brother  Emile  was  still  at  school,  and  Louis  was 
learning  the  art  of  brewing  beer,  in  Ghent. 

Here,  then,  were  my  father  and  I,  both  ill ;  and  my 
uncle,  although  he  concealed  his  uneasiness,  could  not 
conceal  his  sadness. 

My  grandmother,  who  loved  us  all,  was  visibly  de- 
clining. She  was  now  seventy-nine  years  old.  She  still 
laughed,  however,  from  habit.  She  never  now  stirred 
from  her  chair,  which,  as  you  know,  stood  near  the 
Louis  Quinze  chimney-piece,  in  the  little  kitchen. 

But  youth  does  not  long  give  way  to  despair.  I  be- 
gan to  take  an  interest  in  life  again.  New  blossoms 
sprang  up  in  my  heart. 

I  profited  by  my  sleepless  nights  to  compose  strophes 
that  formed  themselves  in  my  brain,  without  conscious 
effort  on  my  part. 

These  were  the  first  verses  I  had  made  since  I  had 
left  college. 

I  began  to  regain  my  strength  ;  my  father,  also,  be- 
gan to  grow  a  little  better — when,  without  warning,  a 
sudden  illness  put  an  end  to  my  poor  godmother's  ex- 
istence. 

On  the  i3th  of  February,  1847,  sne  san^  to  rest,  with 
a  serenity  befitting  her  pure  and  simple  soul.  You  have 


i58 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 


read  the  history  of  my  childhood  ;  you  have  seen  how 
devotedly  this  good  woman  watched  over  us;  you  will 
understand  my  grief. 


LIV. 

AT  this  time  I  felt  myself  strongly  attracted  to  Paris. 

In  the  year  1845  ^  na<^  spent  nearly  three  weeks 
there  with  my  father,  who,  at  the  time,  was  having  pub- 
lished in  the  Rue  Foin  Saint  -  Jacques  a  Forester's 
Guide,  of  which  not  a  single  copy  is  now  to  be  met  with. 

Through  the  influence  of  L.  D ,  a  doorkeeper  at 

the  Louvre,  I  had  obtained  a  card  of  admission  to  the 
museums  for  the  purpose  of  working  there. 

I  remember  that  I  was  more  struck  by  the  facile 
graces  of  the  decadence  than  by  the  masterpieces 
there.  I  made  some  sketches  after  Spada,  Guido,  the 
Carracci,  and  some  Flemish  and  Dutch  painters. 

At  the  Luxembourg,  the  paintings  of  Leopold  Ro- 
bert filled  me  with  admiration,  while  the  paintings  of 
Delacroix,  with  the  exception  of  the  Massacre  of  Scio, 
appeared  to  me  hideous. 

The  faulty  drawing  of  this  painter  aroused  my  in- 
dignation. 

I  fancied  to  myself  the  furious  reproaches  Vander- 
haert  would  have  hurled  at  me  if  I  had  drawn  hands 
and  feet  as  distorted  as  some  of  those  in  the  "  Algerian 
Women,"  and  the  "  Jewish  Wedding." 

As  for  his  coloring,  filled  as  my  mind  still  was  with 
the  transparent  lights  of  the  pictures  of  the  Flemish 
school,  I  thought  them  dull  and  muddy,  although  at  the 
same  time  they  impressed  me  strangely. 

Besides  attending  to  our  business,  both  my  father 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 


159 


and  I  had  made  good  use  of  our  time  in  other  ways. 
Like  all  good  provincials  of  those  days  (one  might  think 
they  were  two  hundred  years  ago),  we  had  sent  the 
Wonders  of  the  Capital,  without  forgetting  the  Vault  of 
the  Blind,  the  silver  scales  of  Vero-Dodat,  the  glass 
staircase,  and  the  pipe  which  was  worth  a  thousand 
francs. 

We  had  made  the  round  of  the  theatres,  applauded 
Duprez,  Madame  Stolz,  Rubini,  Mario,  Lablache,  Ra- 
chel, and  the  Ravels,  the  Bouffe"s,  the  Lepeintres,  the 
Vernets,  the  Arnals,  the  Grassots,  and  many  others. 

We  had  passed  whole  nights  scratching  ourselves, 
and  writhing  among  the  bedclothes  that  smelled  of 
chlorine,  mingled  with  other  perfumes,  devoured  by  the 
bed-bugs,  in  a  small  hotel  of  the  Rue  Saint-Honor^, 
whose  name — Hdtel  des  Ambassadeurs — might,  however, 
have  led  one  to  expect  something  better. 

I  had  seen  Versailles !  I  find  in  the  rough  draft  of 
a  letter,  addressed  at  this  time  to  a  school-fellow  who 
was  still  at  college,  this  pompous  phrase  :  "  Versailles, 
where  are  to  be  seen  the  giant  progeny  of  the  grandest 
genius  of  the  age — I  refer  to  the  great  paintings  of  Hor- 
ace Vernet !  "  And  to  think  that  the  illusions  of  still-life 
painting  could  mislead  me  to  this  extent !  for  it  was  not 
the  beauties  of  this  painter  that  I  chiefly  admired,  but 
his  little  tricks  to  catch  the  vulgar — the  skillful  fore- 
shortening of  a  gun,  the  gloss  on  hair  moist  with  per- 
spiration, the  exactitude  of  the  details,  the  deceptions 
of  still-life.  And  yet,  O  fellow-painters  of  the  present 
day,  thus  it  is  that  we  are  appreciated  at  our  exhibitions 
by  a  multitude  of  people,  who  still  judge  art  in  this 
fashion ! 

I  was  not,  then,  altogether  a  stranger  in  Paris,  when, 
in  1847,  I  took  up  my  abode  there  in  a  little  room,  on 
the  third  floor,  at  No.  5  Rue  du  Dragon. 


l6o  THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

I  had  a  good  many  acquaintances  in  Paris,  Courrie- 
res  and  its  surroundings  having  sent  there  a  part  of  its 
surplus  population.  We  visited  them  all,  so  as  not  to 
create  jealousy — from  M.  Delbecque,  head  clerk  in  the 
office  of  the  Minister  of  Public  Instruction,  to  Louis 
Me"mere,  the  son  of  my  nurse,  who,  as  you  will  remem- 
ber, used  to  tell  us  stories  in  our  childhood  as  we  sat 
around  the  fire. 

My  father,  who  was  good-nature  itself,  was  of  course 
intrusted  with  some  message  for  each  one  of  them. 

Many  of  these  compatriots  of  ours  served  as  waiters 
in  cafes.  I  was  struck  by  the  Parisian  accent  and  the 
affected  manners  of  these  youths,  whom  I  had  known  as 
rude  peasants. 

Some  of  them  smiled  at  my  simple  and  provincial 
air,  and  waited  on  me  in  a  way  that  savored  more  of 
mockery  than  respect.  I  must  say  that  I  have  no  com- 
plaint of  this  kind  to  make  of  Louis  Memere,  although 
he  was  one  of  the  most  accomplished  waiters  of  the 
Cafe  de  Mulhouse,  and,  later,  of  the  Cafe  des  Mille 
Colonnes. 

The  desire  to  use  fine  language  made  them  at  times 
commit  singular  mistakes  ;  thus,  because  the  letters  an 
are  pronounced  in  the  provincial  dialect  like  in,  they 
pronounced  the  letters  in  in  every  word  like  an.  In  this 
way  they  pronounced  vin  (wine)  van,  because  in  the  pro- 
vincial dialect  vent  (wind)  is  pronounced  as  if  it  were 
written  vint.  And  when  my  father  and  I  went  again  to 

visit  our  compatriot,  L.  I ,  the  doorkeeper  of  the 

Louvre,  whom  I  have  before  mentioned,  to  ask  his  opinion 
regarding  the  studio  I  ought  to  enter,  he  responded 
gravely :  "  It  is  indispensable  that  Jules  should  enter  the 
studio  of  a  member  of  the  Anstitute  ;  there  are  Mes- 
sieurs Cognet,  Picot,  Delaroche,  Atigres,  and  JDrollang, 
to  choose  from." 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST.  igj 

After  reflecting  for  a  moment,  he  advised  us  to 
choose  Drolling,  because  a  former  beadle  of  the  studio 
was  a  friend  of  his. 

When,  carrying  my  portfolio  under  my  arm,  and  ac- 
companied by  my  father,  I  knocked  timidly  at  the  door 
of  his  studio,  it  was  Drolling  himself,  his  palette  in  his 
hand,  who  opened  the  door  for  us. 

He  wore  a  knitted  woolen  jacket  and  a  red  Greek 
cap,  as  he  is  represented  in  the  portrait  painted  of  him 
by  his  pupil  Biennourry. 

His  frank  and  simple  manners,  somewhat  brusque, 
and  his  long  white  mustache,  gave  him  the  air  rather  of 
a  retired  officer  than  of  an  artist. 

Under  this  exterior  I  divined  an  excellent  nature, 
and  I  gathered  courage. 

I  opened  my  portfolio,  which  contained,  along  with 
some  drawings  and  still-life  studies  in  my  own  style,  a 
torso  painted  by  one  of  the  shining  lights  among  the 
students  of  the  Academy  of  Antwerp,  after  the  method 
which  I  have  before  mentioned.  This  gaudy  torso, 
which  resembled  an  omelet  with  jam,  shocked  at  the 
very  beginning  my  future  master.  "  Look  at  that !  It 
is  horrible  !  "  he  cried. 

Happily  I  could  tell  him  that  it  was  not  my  work.  I 
then  showed  him  a  still-life  study  which  I  had  painted 
while  in  the  studio  of  De  Vigne,  to  which  I  attached  but 
little  importance,  and  which  I  should  never  have  dared 
to  compare  to  the  gaudy  picture  of  the  Academy  of  Ant- 
werp. 

His  expression  immediately  changed.  "  This  yours  ? " 
he  said  to  me.  "  Why,  it  is  divinely  painted  !  " 

Divinely  painted  !  With  what  sweetness  these  words 
fell  on  the  good  ear  of  my  father,  who,  like  me  now,  was 
deaf  in  one  ear  ! 

My  father  was  very  ill  at  this  time,  dying  within  a 
ii 


X62  THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 

year.  He  was  not  permitted,  alas  !  to  witness  any  of 
my  successes,  and  of  my  paintings  he  saw  only  one — "  St. 
Piat  preaching  to  the  Gauls  " — my  first  picture,  executed 
while  I  was  at  Ghent,  and  which  we  so  proudly  hung 
over  one  of  the  side  altars  of  the  church  of  Courrieres. 

This  praise  from  the  lips  of  a  man  whom  we  consid- 
ered a  great  painter  moved  him  profoundly. 

When  we  again  found  ourselves  alone  on  the  land- 
ing, after  Drolling  had  closed  the  door  of  the  studio,  my 
father  clasped  me  in  his  arms,  repeating,  "You  paint 
divinely  !  "  Then,  as  we  went  down-stairs,  he  added  : 
"  Hey !  what  if  you,  too,  should  one  day  become  a 
member  of  the  Institute  ?  " 

Blessed  be  your  memory,  O  good  Drolling,  for  by  your 
words  you  justified  in  the  mind  of  a  father,  soon  to  die, 
his  confidence  in  his  son's  future — his  supreme  consola- 
tion ! 


LV. 

MY  father  soon  returned  home,  leaving  me  alone  in 
the  whirl  of  Paris,  that  desert  full  of  unknown  faces. 

For  the  first  few  days  I  was  like  one  dazed,  without 
knowing  which  way  to  turn — wandering  aimlessly  on, 
losing  myself  a  dozen  times,  and  finding  myself  again 
in  the  same  street,  when  I  had  thought  myself  miles 
away. 

0  solitude    in    the    midst    of  the    crowd — solitude 
without  peace,  how  heavily  you  weighed  upon  me  at 
first! 

1  had  indeed,  at  the  beginning,  on  Sundays,  the  so- 
ciety of  some  of  my  compatriots,  the  waiters  ;  but  their 
fine  language  and  their  endless  conversation  about  the 
great   men   who   frequented    their   restaurants,   and    of 


THE   LIFE    OF   AN   ARTIST. 


I63 


whom  they  spoke  as  if  they  were  their  intimate  friends, 
possessed  but  little  interest  for  me. 

I  was  not  familiar  with  either  the  names  or  the  his- 
tories of  the  celebrities  of  the  day. 

I  had  a  liking  for  Louis  Memere,  however,  at  the 
same  time  that  I  could  not  help  smiling  at  his  preten- 
sions. 

We  often  walked  together  in  the  outskirts  of  the  city, 
and  it  was  wonderful  to  me,  who  blushed  up  to  the  eyes 
whenever  I  was  obliged  to  address  one  of  the  waiters  in 
a  restaurant,  to  see  with  what  self-possession  and  ease 
he  spoke  to  everybody.  He  knew  how  to  make  himself 
served,  glaring  at  the  waiter,  and  threatening  to  com- 
plain to  the  head  of  the  establishment  if  the  slightest 
delay  were  made  in  serving  him,  or  if  the  merest  trifle 
had  been  forgotten.  "  Have  you  no  lemons  here  ?  Go 
bring  the  landlord  !  " 

These  despotic  ways  embarrassed  me  a  little,  indeed, 
but  when  the  lemon  had  been  obtained,  and  the  bill 
paid,  I  loved  to  continue  our  walk  farther  on  into  the 
corn-fields.  This  recalled  our  childhood  to  me,  and  we 
spoke  of  our  native  place  with  emotion — of  my  father, 
my  uncle,  my  younger  brothers,  and  of  Me"m&re  Henri- 
ette,  who  had  nursed  us,  and  who  was  beginning  to  grow 
old,  and  of  grandfather  Colas,  who  was  still  living,  the 
one  from  whom  he  had  heard  so  many  tales,  and  of  a 
thousand  nothings  —  of  the  brown  salamanders  that 
prowled  at  night  in  the  flower-beds  in  the  garden,  and 
of  the  gooseberries  he  ate  there  so  greedily,  while  the 
grasshoppers  chirped  in  the  gathering  twilight.  And 
those  nothings  would  make  my  bosom  swell  with  an  in- 
tense longing  to  be  once  more  in  my  native  place. 


164  THE    LIFE   OF   AN    ARTIST. 


LVI. 

MY  entrance  to  the  Drolling  studio  was  not  unat- 
tended by  some  disagreeable  incidents.  The  moment  I 
put  my  foot  inside  the  door  a  deafening  tumult  greeted 
my  ears,  and  I  saw  myself  surrounded  by  faces  whose 
expressions,  bantering,  menacing,  or  strange,  absolutely 
terrified  me.  I  felt  myself  at  the  same  time  pulled  about 
from  one  side  to  another,  while  I  received  on  my  head 
the  blows  of  the  cushions  of  the  tabourets,  that  rained 
upon  me  from  all  parts  of  the  room. 

It  was  in  this  way  that  new  pupils  were  greeted  in 
those  days. 

Quiet  being  restored,  one  of  the  tallest  of  the  stu- 
dents, who,  better  dressed  and  more  distinguished-look- 
ing than  the  others,  appeared  to  me  to  be  of  a  superior 
station,  approached  me  and  asked  me  very  politely : 

"  Where  are  you  from,  monsieur  ?  "  I  answered  in 
a  tone  that  I  tried  to  render  as  amiable  as  possible, 
u  From  Pas-de-Calais."  "  Oh,  that  is  easily  seen,"  he 
said,  without  moving  a  muscle  of  his  countenance. 

This  polite  young  man  was  called  Timbal. 

Then  the  oldest  of  the  group,  Deligne,  a  young  man 
from  Cambrai,  near  my  native  place,  came  up  to  me  and 
said  :  "  See,  my  boy,  there  are  seven  or  eight  among  the 
students  whom  I  am  going  to  point  out  to  you,  and 
whom  it  would  be  well  for  you  to  make  friends  with. 
As  for  the  others,  you  may  snap  your  fingers  at  them." 
And  then,  raising  his  voice,  he  said  to  the  students  : 
"  This  new  pupil  is  a  compatriot  of  mine ;  I  shall  take 
him  under  my  protection,  and  let  him  who  dare  touch 
him  !  " 

From  this  time  forth  I  was  left  in  peace.  I  was  as- 
signed the  task,  in  accordance  with  the  custom  of  the 


THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 


I65 


time,  of  taking  care  of  the  fire  and  going  on  certain  er- 
rands ;  and  the  first  time  I  took  my  hat  from  the  nail  to 
go  on  one  of  these,  I  saw  that  they  had  drawn  on  it  with 
chalk  the  cockade  and  aigrette  of  a  lackey. 

At  the  height  of  the  melee,  through  the  dust  raised 
by  the  blows  of  the  cushions  and  the  stamping  of  the 
feet  of  the  boys,  among  whom  Ulman,  nicknamed 
**  Horse's  Head,"  was  one  of  the  wildest,  I  had  caught 
a  glimpse  of  a  young  man,  of  quiet  demeanor,  who  was 
looking  at  me  less  mockingly  than  the  others. 

His  countenance  at  once  arrested  my  attention.  He 
was  short,  thick-set,  very  dark,  with  hair  the  color  of 
the  raven's  wing,  that  rose  abruptly  from  the  head  and 
then  fell  down  in  a  twisted  lock  over  the  straight  fore- 
head. His  eyes,  which  were  deep-set  and  very  black, 
shone  from  beneath  overhanging  brows.  A  budding 
mustache  shaded  his  short  upper  lip,  and  his  mouth, 
notwithstanding  the  proximity  of  the  square  jaw  and 
the  prominent  chin,  denoting  self-will,  had  a  sweet  and 
melancholy  expression.  It  was  the  face  of  an  eagle 
touched  with  feeling. 

His  name  was  Paul  Baudry. 

What  struck  me  most  in  the  work  of  the  students 
here  was  the  cold,  dull  coloring  of  the  greater  number 
of  the  paintings. 

They  were  very,  different  from  the  glowing  canvases 
of  Antwerp,  but  the  drawing  was  more  correct.  I  thought 
some  of  them  skillfully  executed,  but  wanting  in  life. 
The  faces  of  Baudry,  however,  with  proportions  that 
were  often  incorrect,  had  a  singularly  lifelike  expression. 

The  master  visited  the  studio  twice  a  week,  limiting 
himself  on  these  occasions  to  pointing  out  arms  that 
were  too  long,  or  legs  that  were  too  short,  and  never 
rinding  the  necks  flexible  enough.  He  advised  us  to 
make  sketches,  a  great  many  sketches,  from  the  antique, 


1 66  THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

and  from  Poussin.  Sometimes  he  would  say  :  "  More 
light !  Light  is  a  fine  thing  !  "  Alas  !  it  was  easier  to 
give  the  advice  than  to  follow  it. 

Baudry  was  already  regarded  as  destined  to  become 
famous.  If  his  genius  had  been  divined,  however,  that 
of  Henner  was  still  unrecognized.  The  latter  worked 
silently,  painting  his  figure  conscientiously  and  with 
even  touch,  without  himself  suspecting  the  brilliant 
future  that  awaited  him.  Timbal  gave  no  greater 
promise  than  Henner,  but  he  was  very  noisy,  speaking 
in  a  loud  tone  of  voice,  and  singing  in  the  same  manner. 

He  sought  after  esprit. 

One  day  he  said,  "  Nature,  who  never  makes  a  mis- 
take, knowing  that  I  was  born  for  noise,  called  me 
Timbal."* 

There  were  others,  too,  who  sang  unceasingly — Mer- 
son,  Pouttier,  Langlois,  and  the  worthy  Roy,  now  living 
in  Rennes,  and  with  whom  I  still  keep  up  an  intimacy. 

Merson,  who  is  also  still  my  friend,  has,  as  we  know, 
given  up  painting  for  literature,  leaving  to  a  son  the 
task  of  covering  the  family  name  with  glory  in  the  field 
of  art.  Maillot  sought  after  style,  which  he  occasionally 
found,  and  in  the  rare  intervals,  of  silence  he  would  tell 
witty  anecdotes  with  a  grave  air,  speaking  in  a  monoto- 
nous tone  that  lulled  the  ear  agreeably,  and  separating 
each  syllable,  with  a  simplicity  of  manner  that  had  some- 
thing very  comical  in  it. 

The  presence  of  Bertinot  scarcely  .made  itself  felt. 
He  was  in  poor  health,  and  rarely  stirred  from  his  chair, 
digging  away  industriously  at  his  work ;  nor,  that  of 
the  poor  Roguet,  a  handsome  young  man,  and  who  was 
twice  to  obtain  the  Prix  de  Rome,  and  also  the  prize 
offered  by  the  state,  in  1848,  for  a  statue  of  the  Republic. 

*  A  kettle-drum. 


THE   LIFE  OF   AN   ARTIST.  ^7 

We  all  thought  a  glorious  future  awaited  him.  Alas  ! 
he  was  soon  to  die  at  Rome  from  the  consequences  of  a 
fall  from  his  horse,  like  Gericaulr. 

It  was  here,  too,  that  I  became  acquainted  with  the 
worthy  Leon  Moricourt  for  whom  I  still  entertain  an  af- 
fection, and  the  excellent  and  intelligent  Emile  Sintain. 

But,  although  it  is  true,  I  had  now  made  some  ac- 
quaintances, I  had  not  yet  found  a  real  friend. 

Habituated  to  the  quietude  of  a  retired  life,  I  felt 
myself,  in  the  whirl  of  Paris,  dazed  and  out  of  my  ele- 
ment. 

My  work  suffered  from  this  confusion. 

I  no  longer  painted  divinely.  I  received  no  prize,  and 
in  the  School  of  Fine  Arts  I  was  placed  in  the  supple- 
mentary class. 

At  the  competition  especially  I  made  a  botch  of  my 
drawings,  tearing  the  paper  by  dint  of  digging  at  it.  I 
always  grew  disgusted  with  my  figure  before  it  was  fin- 
ished, and  either  threw  it  aside  or  continued  to  work 
obstinately  at  the  same  part,  making  it  worse  than  it  was 
before. 

I  became  discouraged. 

Drolling,  who  did  not  believe  in  the  sincerity  of  my 
fruitless  efforts,  regarded  me  as  a  rebellious  pupil,  and 
took  a  dislike  to  me.  Every  Saturday,  at  the  sketch- 
class,  I  was  the  subject  of  some  sharp  reprimand.  "  What 
do  you  call  that?  Now  we  have  a  specimen  of  Diaz 
and  Delacroix  !  "  There  was  something  of  prejudice  in 
this,  perhaps,  as  he  always  placed  me  lowest,  even  when 
I  painted  "  The  Death  of  Epaminondas,"  which  Baudry 
had  considered  good. 

One  day  I  took  my  revenge.  We  had  the  "  Death  of 
Antony  "  given  us  as  a  subject,  and  I  made  two  different 
compositions  of  it.  He  recognized  my  touch  in  the  first 
of  these  which  his  eye  fell  upon,  rated  me  sharply,  and, 


1 68  THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST. 

as  usual,  put  me  at  the  tail.  Then,  when  his  examina- 
tion was  almost  finished,  he  saw  the  second  sketch,  in 
which  I  had  purposely  disguised  my  style,  and,  before 
knowing  whom  it  was  by,  he  praised  it  so  highly  that  he 
was  compelled  to  give  it  the  first  place. 

Thus  it  was  that  at  the  same  competition  I  was  both 
first  and  last. 

This  slight  success  was  only  a  faint  gleam  of  light  in 
the  midst  of  the  many  annoyances  and  mortifications  I 
endured,  especially  as  I  had  no  one  to  whom  I  could 
unburden  my  full  heart.  I  missed  the  sweet  scent  of 
the  clover.  I  missed,  too,  Flanders,  and  the  simple  life 
there,  the  rustic  villages  around  Ghent,  with  their  green 
fields  so  near  the  city ;  and  the  tea-gardens,  where  we 
went  in  a  boat,  and  where  for  a  few  sous  one  could  get 
a  glass  of  excellent  beer,  and  cold  eels,  dressed  with 
sorrel.  I  missed,  in  a  word,  the  comfort  which  was  there 
to  be  had  at  little  cost,  and  which  was  not  to  be  found 
here.  The  theatres  were  too  expensive,  and  what  tenor 
in  Paris,  even  Dupre  himself,  could  be  compared  with 
the  famous  Albert  ?  He  was  afterward  the  teacher  of 
Lauwers,  one  of  the  most  admired  singers  of  Paris — 
ask  him  what  he  thinks  of  Albert !  Ask  any  of  my  con- 
temporaries in  Ghent  if  they  have  ever  heard  an  artist 
who  was  comparable  to  him  ?  What  storms  of  applause 
greeted  certain  airs,  when  the  bravos  interrupted  the 
performance  for  minutes  at  a  time  !  Often  I  would  re- 
turn home  from  the  theatre,  striding  along  the  street 
gesticulating,  intoxicated  with  enthusiasm,  as  on  the  oc- 
casion, for  instance,  when,  lost  in  these  raptures,  and 
not  seeing  whither  I  was  going,  I  stepped  between  the 
loose  bars  of  a  cellar-grating,  and  thought  myself  fortu- 
nate on  drawing  my  foot  out,  and  seeing  the  large  rent 
in  my  trousers,  to  find  that  my  leg  was  not  broken. 

How  beautiful  the  city  looked  on  winter  nights,  as  I 


THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 


l6g 


returned  from  the  theatre,  the  light  from  the  street  lamps 
falling  palely  on  the  snow,  while  from  the  slated  roofs 
and  spires  the  cold  rays  of  the  moon  were  reflected 
brightly ! 

How  far  I  was  from  all  this  and  from  those  pretty 
girls  whom  in  summer  I  would  meet  on  my  Sunday 
walks,  and  whom  I  looked  at  boldly  in  the  distance, 
toward  whom  I  walked  with  courageous  step,  to  blush 
from  bashfulness  like  an  imbecile,  while  my  knees  bent 
under  me,  as  I  passed  them  by ! 

And  the  bare  room  which  De  Winne  and  I  shared, 
with  its  book-shelf  that,  supported  only  by  a  single  nail, 
fell  down  on  the  same  day  with  the  bell-tower  of  Valen- 
ciennes. How  we  had  laughed  at  this  coincidence,  say- 
ing that  the  shock  produced  by  the  fall  of  the  shelf  had 
caused  that  of  the  bell-tower  ! 

And  I  recalled  all  these  trifles  with  sadness,  and, 
above  all,  I  recalled  the  little  friend  whose  delicately 
outlined  face,  like  that  of  one  of  the  angels  in  the  Gothic 
cathedrals,  vanished  from  my  sight  the  moment  I  sought 
to  fix  it  on  canvas. 

How  many  sorrows  did  you  witness,  O  little  room 
in  the  Rue  du  Dragon  ! 

How  all  my  dreams  of  glory  had  vanished  !  How 
direct  my  course  in  this  labyrinth  ?  How  make  my  way 
through  this  busy  crowd  that  jostle  and  hinder  one 
another  at  every  step  ? 

Ah  !  weariness ! 

I  remember  dark,  rainy  days,  when  I  wandered  alone 
through  the  muddy  streets,  sick  at  heart,  walking  on  and 
on  aimlessly,  without  pausing,  perspiring  under  the  hood 
of  my  coat,  and  splashed  to  the  waist,  while  the  rain  fell 
ceaselessly,  seeking  consolation,  not  in  the  gayety,  but 
in  the  desolation  around  me. 

One  day,  when  I  had  been  again  placed  among  the 


THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

last  in  the  sketch-class,  I  felt  so  profound  a  sense  of  dis- 
satisfaction with  myself  that,  wishing  to  see  misery  still 
greater  than  mine,  I  yielded  to  the  irresistible  impulse 
that  drew  me  to  contemplate  the  horrible  sights  in  the 
morgue. 


LVII. 

FORTUNATELY,  it  was  not  long  before  my  brother 
6mile  came  to  live  with  me. 

My  excellent  father,  who  wished  before  his  death  to 
assure  the  future  of  his  children,  had  built  a  factory  for 
him,  and  now  sent  him  to  Paris  to  take  lessons  in  chem- 
istry. 

But,  in  place  of  devoting  himself  to  the  sciences,  Emile 
spent  his  days  regularly  at  the  Louvre  or  the  Luxem- 
bourg, although  he  did  not  yet  comprehend  the  voca- 
tion that  attracted  him  to  art. 

His  presence  chased  away  the  evil  dreams  that  had 
haunted  my  solitude. 

He  was  now  sixteen.  I  was  astonished  to  discover 
in  him  all  at  once  a  turn  for  art  that  we  had  never  be- 
fore suspected.  I  scolded  him  for  wasting  his  time,  but 
without  effect. 

One  afternoon,  returning  to  our  room,  I  found  upon 
the  table  a  rough  sketch  in  water-colors,  exquisite  in 
tone,  and  I  was  astonished  to  learn  that  this  was  the 
first  attempt  of  my  young  brother. 

From  that  time  I  ceased  to  oppose  him.  In  other 
respects  we  were  not  in  accord  in  our  views  regarding 
art.  He  admired  neither  Ingres  nor  Leopold  Robert, 
while  he  adored  Delacroix. 

The  Salon  of  1847 — the  first  held  since  I  had  been 
in  Paris — was  soon  opened. 


THE   LIFE  OF   AN   ARTIST. 


171 


The  hall  was  reached  from  the  corner  of  the  Place 
du  Carrousel  by  a  massive  staircase,  no  longer  used. 

How  this  place  has  changed  since  then !  Starting 
from  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  various  alleys,  narrow  and 
dirty,  in  which  twilight  always  reigned,  encroached  up- 
on it.  These  alleys  terminated  near  the  little  Arc  de 
la  Victoire,  in  a  few  scattered  and  forbidding-looking 
houses.  In  the  middle,  standing  alone,  was  the  Hotel 
de  Nantes,  and  near  by  rose  a  small  monument  erected 
to  a  student  killed  in  July,  1830.  In  the  approaches  to 
the  Louvre  were  crowded  together  a  number  of  wooden 
barracks,  occupied  by  venders  of  birds  that  filled  the 
air  with  their  cries,  and  by  venders  of  old  books  and 
engravings,  soiled  maps,  tattered  pamphlets,  grimy  paint- 
ings, and  dusty  bric-&-brac,  among  which  thin  fingers  were 
always  rummaging,  and  long,  yellow  noses  diving  inquis- 
itively. 

The  whole  place,  even  the  court  of  the  Louvre,  was 
unpaved,  as  far  as  the  rising  ground  on  which  stood  the 
statue  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans  by  Marochetti,  replaced 
by  the  equestrian  statue  of  Francis  I  by  Clisinger,  called 
the  Sire  de  Framboisi. 

The  pictures  of  the  Exhibition  were  displayed  in  the 
Square  Hall  and  in  the  Grand  Gallery,  much  longer  then 
than  now,  against  wooden  partitions  which,  for  three 
months  in  the  year,  hid  from  view  the  Old  Masters  that 
hung,  deprived  of  light  and  air,  behind  them. 

Another  gallery  of  unplaned  boards,  a  permanent  one, 
supported  on  rough  beams,  ran  the  length  of  the  Carrousel. 

Great  as  had  been  my  eagerness  to  see  it,  I  did  not 
experience  when  there  the  same  emotion  as  I  had  felt  at 
Brussels  five  years  before.  My  eyes  were  no  longer  un- 
practiced.  I  had  penetrated  behind  the  scenes  in  art, 
and  vivid  coloring  had  lost  its  fascination  for  me.  I 
now  looked  for  harmony. 


1^2  THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 

I  enter  the  Square  Hall.  In  place  of  the  Veronese 
that  had  hung  there  before,  I  see  the  grand  success  of 
the  day,  "  The  Roman  Orgy,"  of  Thomas  Couture. 

I  stand  before  this  picture,  undecided  whether  to 
admire  it  or  not.  At  first  it  gives  me  the  impression  of 
something  faded,  like  one  of  Boucher's  legs  of  beef.  I 
am  struck  by  the  decorative  part  of  the  picture,  the 
beautiful  architecture  and  the  wide-mouthed  vases  drop- 
ping their  faded  flowers  on  the  floor. 

The  coloring  of  the  picture  seems  to  me  confused, 
as  if  seen  through  a  greenish-gray  fog.  I  admire  the 
figures  of  the  philosophers,  the  mastery  of  the  grouping, 
but  I  am  little  struck  by  the  character  of  this  orgy,  that 
I  should  prefer  to  be  either  wilder  or  more  moderate. 
Here  are  bourgeois  diverting  themselves,  vulgar  debauch- 
ers.  Neither  can  I  reconcile  myself  to  this  eighteenth- 
century  art,  these  Roman  costumes  and  architecture, 
with  these  men  and  women  of  the  time  of  Louis  Philippe. 

I  have  said  that  I  made  but  little  progress  at  the 
studio  ;  but  spring,  whose  mild  airs  caused  the  magnifi- 
cent chestnut-trees,  since  dead,  of  the  Garden  of  the 
Luxembourg  to  send  forth  their  shining  buds — spring, 
which  sifted  its  pale  sunshine  through  their  spreading 
green  branches  on  the  ladies,  and  the  nurses  and  their 
little  charges  seated  at  their  feet — spring  chased  away 
my  fits  of  gloom,  and  cheered  and  revived  my  heart,  in 
which  a  new  joy  had  sprung  up. 

For  I  had  just  begun,  in  my  little  room,  a  sunlight 
sketch  from  nature  of  a  scene  in  this  delightful  garden. 

I  must  confess  that  I  was  not  dissatisfied  with  this 
painting,  the  first  in  which  I  drew  my  inspiration  direct 
from  nature.  I  saw  a  new  world,  as  it  were,  open  be- 
fore me,  a  world  of  new  harmonies  of  color. 

This  feeling  of  pride,  for  which  there  was  so  little 
foundation,  it  was  that  made  me  so  severe  toward  Cou- 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 


173 


ture  and  the  other  exhibitors  at  the  Salon  of  1847.  I  had 
not  yet  acquired  the  experience  which  gives  modesty. 

I  did  not  lay  down  my  arms  even  before  Delacroix, 
whose  Lance-Thrust  seemed  to  me  heavy  from  its  ex- 
cessive elaboration.  The  recollection  of  the  pictures 
of  the  middle  ages,  at  Brussels,  for  which  I  cherished 
so  profound  an  admiration,  prevented  my  doing  justice 
to  the  sentiment  of  this  work. 

I  anticipated  a  keen  pleasure  in  seeing  the  pictures 
of  Horace*  Vernet,  whom  I  had  so  ardently  admired 
scarcely  a  year  before,  and  I  was  greatly  surprised  to 
find  his  "  Royal  Family  "  and  his  "  Judith  "  both  a  little 
dull  and  commonplace. 

In  exchange,  with  some  slight  reservations,  I  admired 
Diaz.  I  found  reproduced  in  part  in  his  paintings  my 
impressions  of  the  Garden  of  the  Luxembourg  and  of  the 
Forest  of  Labroye — these  latter  received  so  long  ago. 

I  was  charmed  by  his  shimmering  draperies,  his 
pearly,  transparent  flesh-tints,  and  his  bursts  of  sunshine 
darting  through  the  branches  and  lighting  up  with  daz- 
zling gleams  the  trunks  of  the  trees  of  the  tall  hedges.  I 
also  found  real  sunlight  in  the  May  Dance  of  Muller. 

Corot  enchanted  me.  There  was  a  silvery  pool  of 
his  that  reflected  back  the  sky  and  the  trees  wet  with 
morning  dew  that  recalled  to  my  mind  hours  spent  in 
childhood  wandering  along  the  borders  of  the  ponds  in 
our  Carperie. 


LVIII. 

THE  circle  of  my  friends,  meantime,  had  widened. 
I  had  met  again  some  of  the  former  students  of  the  col- 
lege, and  among  them  Ernest  Delalleau,  a  young  archi- 
tect and  a  pupil  of  Labrouste. 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 

This  Delalleau  was  a  strange-looking  young  man. 
He  had  an  animated  face,  extremely  mobile  and  intelli- 
gent, with  light-green  eyes  shot  with  yellow,  and  set 
close  together  like  those  of  a  monkey.  The  head  of  a 
Roman,  covered  with  stiff  and  rebellious  locks ;  a  straight 
forehead  ;  eyebrows  ascending  toward  the  temples  ;  a 
retroussJ  nose  ;  very  thin  lips,  always  wearing  a  mock- 
ing expression ;  strong,  square  jaws  ;  a  large  and  promi- 
nent chin,  on  which  grew  a  short,  ill-kept  bristly  beard  ; 
a  very  long  neck,  with  the  glottis  extremely  prominent ; 
the  neck  set  firmly  on  the  shoulders — such  were  the 
parts  that  went  to  complete  the  picture,  odd  rather 
than  ugly,  and  singularly  remarkable,  of  this  young 
man. 

I  met  him  for  the  first  time,  in  the  year  1838,  at  the 
little  seminary  of  St.  Bertin.  He  was  then  about  twelve 
years  old. 

We  were  in  the  refectory  when  he  entered  for  the 
first  time — the  only  first  appearance  of  a  student  among 
us  which  I  remember,  although  I  have  witnessed  many. 
Why  ?  Why,  because  it  was  he,  and  the  world  could 
never  contain  two  Delalleaus. 

He  wore  a  jacket  of  green  lasting,  bound  with  braid, 
like  many  of  the  other  boys;  trousers  plaited  on  the 
hips,  like  all  of  them.  His  hat  only,  of  a  somewhat  pe- 
culiar fashion,  seemed  to  have  made  any  demands  upon 
the  imagination.  It  resembled  a  cardinal's  hat  from  its 
shape,  as  well  as  from  the  silk  tassel  that  floated  at  the 
end  of  a  complicated  gimp  ornament. 

But  what  most  struck  me,  as  I  said,  was  himself :  the 
nose  like  a  trumpet,  the  mouth  with  its  receding  lips,  the 
bristling  locks,  and,  above  all,  his  expression  like  that  of 
a  frightened  squirrel,  as  if  he  had  suddenly  fallen  down 
among  us  from  some  tree  in  the  forest  of  Hesden,  his 
native  place. 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST.  175 

The  first  thing  he  did  was  to  draw  the  attention  of 
his  neighbor  to  the  flies  walking  on  the  ceiling. 

Fate  willed  that  we  should  pursue  the  same  paths.  I 
met  him  again  at  the  College  of  Douai,  where  we  first  be- 
came intimate  on  account  of  the  similarity  in  our  tastes. 
He  drew,  and  made  verses  which  he  sent  to  his  simple- 
hearted  father.  The  latter  was  enchanted  with  his  son's 
genius,  and  sent  back  the  same  verses  to  him,  recop- 
ied  in  his  own  neater  handwriting. 

Delalleau  was  my  chief  rival  in  the  competition  for 
the  prize  for  drawing  from  the  cast,  in  which  I  came  out 
victorious. 

He  soon  showed  that  he  had  plenty  of  intelligence, 
but  a  lack  of  connection  in  his  thoughts. 

He  might  have  accomplished  a  great  deal,  if  he  had 
been  able  to  fix  his  attention  on  any  one  subject. 

He  would  have  made  a  first-rate  actor. 

He  had  fits  of  enthusiasm  which  changed  like  the 
wind. 

The  censor  of  the  college,  a  Gascon,  laying  his  large 
hand  one  day  on  the  head  of  Delalleau,  said,  "  And 
when  are  they  going  to  put  a  leaden  cap  on  this  head  ?  " 
No  one  could  make  more  absurd  accusations,  or  defend 
with  greater  eloquence  the  side  he  took  up,  than  he 
His  sallies  were  never-ending.  But  all  this  bore  no 
fruit.  The  leaden  cap,  alas  !  was  wanting. 

I  met  him  a  third  time  in  Paris,  on  which  occasion 
we  saw  each  other  daily. 

I  soon  observed  that  the  same  contradictions  existed 
in  his  moral  as  in  his  intellectual  nature.  He  was  at 
once  bold  and  timid,  generous  and  avaricious,  domi- 
neering and  affectionate,  proud  and  tender.  He  al- 
ways gave  evidence  of  a  strong  sense  of  justice,  how- 
ever. 

The  events  of  1848  were  approaching.     Various  in- 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST, 


cidents,  unnecessary  to  relate  here,  had  served  to  fan  the 
flame  of  party  animosity. 

Paris  had  become  irritable  and  feverish.  Odillon 
Bariot,  in  the  National,  and  Ledru-Rollin,  in  the  Reforme, 
were  especially  furious  in  their  attacks  on  the  party  in 
power. 

These  journals  were  eagerly  devoured  by  the  people, 
and  passed  from  hand  to  hand. 

The  excitement  extended  to  the  provinces,  and  was 
especially  intense  in  certain  large  cities  where  the 
speeches  of  the  Reform  banquets  found  an  echo. 

My  uncle,  always  enthusiastic  and  an  assiduous 
reader  and  blind  believer  in  the  doctrines  of  the  Demo- 
crat^ Pacifique,  was  very  proud  of  having  fraternized  at 
Lille  with  the  great  tribune  Ledru-Rollin. 

My  father,  calmer  by  nature,  and  ill  at  the  time,  be- 
sides, had  not  been  present  at  any  of  those  banquets, 
although  a  democrat  in  theory  and  in  practice.  He  had 
for  many  years,  indeed,  thought  himself  a  legitimist,  on 
account  of  his  long  connection  with  the  Duke  of  Duras, 
who  had  presented  him  at  a  soiree  at  the  court  of 
Charles  X. 

But  he  was  even  then  at  heart,  as  he  afterward  said, 
a  republican  without  knowing  it. 

As  for  me  I  felt  but  little  interest  in  politics,  never 
reading  the  papers,  and  always  engrossed  in  my  affec- 
tions and  my  art. 

Delalleau,  on  the  contrary,  enthusiastic  by  nature,  and 
a  great  admirer  of  the  Robespierres  and  the  Dantons  of 
history,  his  mind  crammed  with  the  declamatory  phrases 
of  the  press,  went  about  preaching  revolutionary  ideas. 
He  said  "the  Rrrrevolution  !  "  He  came  to  stir  me  up 
in  my  peaceful  retreat,  calling  the  state  of  ^^-indiffer- 
ence I  maintained  with  regard  to  the  burning  questions 
of  the  day  monstrous  selfishness. 


THE  LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 


177 


But  it  sprang  rather  from  ignorance  on  my  part. 

He  enlightened  me  regarding  public  affairs. 

He  had  no  difficulty  in  proving  to  me  that  Louis 
Philippe,  whom  I  had  not  hitherto  regarded  as  a  bad 
man,  was  more  cruel  than  Tiberius  or  Nero. 

He  took  me  to  the  lectures  of  Michelet,  whose  elo- 
quence drew  me  along  with  almost  all  .the  young  men  of 
Paris  into  the  popular  current. 

People  began  to  grow  excited. 

Ah  !  and  how  touchy  they  became  ! 

The  king,  in  his  speech,  had  dared  to  talk  of  "blind 
or  hostile  passions  !  " 

You  should  have  seen  with  what  flashing  eyes  Delal- 
leau  repeated  this  phrase,  " Blind  or  hostile  passions  !  " 

Was  he  addressing  a  free  people,  or  were  we  slaves  ? 
It  was  monstrous,  unheard  of ! 

Truly  we  were  returning  to  the  times  of  the  cage  of 
Cardinal  de  la  Balue. 

Not  Camille  Desmoulins  himself  had  exercised  a  more 
magnetic  influence  on  those  who  heard  him  than  did 
Delalleau,  when,  on  the  occasion  of  Michelet's  next  lect- 
ure, he  rose  in  his  seat  before  the  arrival  of  the  illus- 
trious professor,  and  with  quivering  nostrils,  his  hair  and 
beard  bristling  with  indignation,  his  yellow  eyes  flashing, 
read  in  a  thundering  voice  the  famous  Discourse  from 
the  Throne. 

His  retrousse"  nose  quivered  with  rage  as  he  shouted 
the  words  "  Blind  or  hostile  passions  !  " 

With  what  indignation  he  cast  from  him  this  docu- 
ment, of  a  past  age ;  with  what  rage  he  stamped  upon  it 
afterward  ! 

Thus  did  Delalleau  offer  himself  a  willing  victim  to 
the  vengeance  of  the  tyrant. 

He  was  not  molested ;  but  the  lectures  of  Michelet 
were  stopped. 

12 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 

This  piece  of  bravado  had  a  pitiable  sequel. 

A  few  days  afterward  I  was  at  the  house  of  Delal- 
leau,  when  his  porter  brought  him  his  paper,  the  Reforme. 

He  opened  it,  and  his  glance  fell  on  a  letter  of 
Michelet's.  It  referred  without  doubt  to  the  famous  in- 
cident ! 

He  read — he  read — what? 

But  no,  it  could  not  be  possible  ! 

At  the  end  of  the  letter  he  read  this  sentence  : 
"  Besides,  it  was  easy  to  see,  from  the  fantastic  appear- 
ance and  dress  of  the  individual  who  read  the  king's 
speech,  that  he  was  an  emissary  of  the  secret  police." 


LIX. 

MEANTIME  £mile  had  returned  to  Courrieres,  having 
learned  more  from  the  Louvre  than  from  his  teacher.  I 
saw  him  depart  with  keen  regret,  although  in  future  I 
should  be  less  lonely  than  formerly,  having  now  made 
some  friends. 

Among  these  I  will  mention  Feyen-Perrin,  who  had 
just  been  admitted  to  the  studio  Drolling. 

He  was  about  nineteen. 

Careless  in  regard  to  his  dress,  he  had  a  great  deal 
of  natural  distinction  of  manner,  and  was  beautiful  as  a 
Greek  youth,  with  his  dark,  flowing  locks  and  his  regu- 
lar and  expressive  features  overspread  with  a  bronze 
pallor  that  redoubled  their  charm.  His  glance  was  at 
once  veiled  and  ardent,  and  he  had  a  melancholy  mouth, 
slightly  disdainful  in  expression,  shaded  by  a  growing 
beard,  shaped  like  that  we  see  in  the  pictures  of  Christ. 

It  was  now  1848. 

The  revolutionary  spirit,  which  was  destined  to  over- 


THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 


179 


turn  the  existing  order  of  society,  was  paving  the  way, 
at  the  same  time,  for  radical  changes  in  art  and  litera- 
ture. 

The  pupils  in  the  studios  as  well  as  in  the  colleges, 
irrespective  of  station  or  political  opinion,  felt  the  at- 
traction of  a  movement  as  popular  if  not  as  violent  as 
that  of  1830. 

The  one  was  the  result  of  new  aspirations,  more  or 
less  chimerical,  the  other  the  revolt  of  reason  against 
the  brilliant  fancies  of  Romanticism. 

If  this  latter  movement  drew  some  artists  toward  the 
lowlands  of  art,  it  impelled  others  to  those  heights 
where  spring  its  living  sources.  I  remember  what  a 
strange  new  restlessness  agitated  my  companions  and 
myself. 

Soon  to  the  ferment  of  ideas  were  added  the  emo- 
tions of  active  life. 

We  were  about  to  pass  through  one  of  the  great  so- 
cial crises  which,  throwing  men  out  of  the  beaten  paths, 
excite  their  imaginations  and  sharpen  their  creative  fac- 
ulties, as  storms  plowing  up  the  earth  fertilize  certain 
parts  of  the  soil  barren  before,  and  stimulate  the  growth 
of  new  vegetation. 


LX. 

I  HAD  been  ill.  I  had  been  confined  to  my  room 
for  several  days  in  consequence  of  a  return  of  my  old 
bronchitis. 

It  is  the  22d  of  February. 

I  have  just  awakened,  finding  a  proof  of  returning 
health  in  the  joyous  feeling  of  well-being  I  experience. 
I  luxuriate  in  the  soft  repose  of  the  bed,  and  in  that 
poetic  egoism  of  convalescence  which  makes  joy  spring 


l8o  THE    LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

up,  with  health,  in  the  heart,  especially  when  one  is 
young. 

I  hear  the  accustomed  sounds,  the  cries  of  the  buy- 
ers of  old  clothes  and  rags,  and  the  shrill  screams  of 
the  brush-vender,  that  reach  me  while  he  is  still  in  the 
Rue  des  Saints-Peres. 

I  am  about  to  take  my  chocolate,  when  a  heavy  blow 
from  the  butt-end  of  a  musket  shakes  my  door,  and  my 
crazy  friend  Delalleau,  in  the  uniform  of  the  National 
Guard,  bursts  in,  and,  leaning  on  his  musket  with  one 
hand  and  placing  the  other  theatrically  on  his  hip, 
cries : 

"  We  are  making  a  Rrrrevolution  ! ! !  " 

"  As  usual,"  I  answer,  shrugging  my  shoulders. 

He  goes  off  to  join  his  company. 

I  left  the  house  a  moment  afterward. 

The  day  was  fine.  The  sun  shone  brightly  in  the 
Rue  Taranne,  where  groups  of  soldiers  were  stationed 
near  their  stands  of  arms. 

To  this  unusual  sight  I  attached  little  importance. 

Besides,  no  one  seemed  to  regard  the  disturbance  as 
anything  more  than  a  simple  riot.  Great  events,  how- 
ever, were  about  to  take  place. 

The  following  is  the  account  I  gave  my  uncle  of  the 
scenes  I  witnessed  on  the  23d  of  February,  in  a  letter 
dated  the  morning  of  the  24th  : 

"Yesterday,  Wednesday,  there  was  a  sharp  struggle 
between  the  people  and  the  Municipal  Guard,  and  blood 
flowed  in  the  Rues  St.  Honore,  St.  Martin,  St.  Denis, 
and  Montorgueil.  In  the  evening  things  were  quieting 
down,  when  the  news  spread  that  the  ministry  had  re- 
signed. From  eight  to  ten  in  the  evening  Paris  was  en 
fete.  The  principal  streets  of  the  city,  which  were  illu- 
minated, were  filled  with  crowds  of  joyous  and  excited 
people  crying  :  'Vive  la  Re'forme !  Down  with  Guizot ! ' 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST.  jgj 

"  The  National  Guard  sang  the  Marsellaise.  I  walked 
through  the  streets  with  Monsieur  Broquise,  a  law  stu- 
dent, who  lodges  in  the  same  house  with  me.  After 
crossing  the  Rue  St.  Denis,  which  presented  a  magnifi- 
cent spectacle,  we  walked  along  the  Boulevard.  The 
people  seemed  to  have  only  peaceful  intentions,  and  we 
were  walking  on  quietly  when,  at  about  forty  paces  dis- 
tant from  the  residence  of  the  Minister  of  Foreign  Af- 
fairs, we  suddenly  heard  the  sound  of  musketry.  With- 
out stopping  to  learn  the  cause,  we  took  the  first  street 
we  came  to,  and  ran  away  at  full  speed." 

Next  day,  the  26th,  I  go  to  the  studio.  I  find  there 
only  a  few  of  the  students,  who,  greatly  agitated,  are 
discussing  the  stormy  events  of  the  day  before. 

The  insurgents  had  carried  the  victims  of  the  fusil- 
lade on  wagons  through  the  streets,  by  torch-light,  utter- 
ing cries  of  "  Vengeance  !  " 

Numerous  barricades  had  been  erected.  There  was 
a  little  fighting  on  the  other  side  of  the  river. 

Under  such  circumstances  no  one  thought  of  work- 
ing. 

The  students  went  away  one  by  one,  until  only  Fey- 
en-Perrin  and  I  remained. 

Neither  of  us  could  resist  the  temptation  of  going  to 
see  what  was  taking  place  on  the  right  bank  of  the  river. 

In  our  quarter  nothing  extraordinary  was  going  on. 
There  were  few  people  in  the  streets,  and  these  were 
gathered  about  here  and  there  in  agitated  groups. 

We  continued  on  our  way  and  soon  reached  the  seat 
of  action. 

After  crossing  the  silent  Louvre,  the  deserted  Rue 
de  Coq  and  the  Rue  St.  Honore,  whose  barricades  were 
deserted,  we  suddenly  found  ourselves  in  the  Place  du 
Palais  Royal,  surrounded  by  armed  men  who  had  come 


1 82  THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

from  we  knew  not  where,  and  between  the  insurgents,  who 
from  their  ramparts  of  paving-stones  were  already  point- 
ing their  guns,  on  the  one  side,  and  on  the  other  the  sol- 
diers who  occupied  the  post  which  then  stood  in  front 
of  the  palace. 

This  crowd  seemed  to  have  sprung  up  from  the 
ground,  while,  thoughtful  and  agitated,  we  had  been 
looking  at  the  soldiers  supporting  their  arms,  an  angry 
and  dejected  expression  on  their  pale  countenances. 

We  sprang  on  the  barricade,  seeking  to  make  our 
way  out  of  the  tumult,  which  we  succeeded  in  doing 
after  some  difficulty,  and  arrived  at  the  Rue  de  Valois, 
where,  happily,  on  our  left,  was  the  Cafe*  du  Nord,  in 
which  we  took  refuge. 

Hardly  were  we  inside,  when  a  volley  of  musketry 
burst  forth. 

From  the  window  where  we  stood  we  saw  an  im- 
mense crowd  rushing  toward  the  barricade. 

Those  haggard  faces  with  unkempt  beards ;  those 
men  armed  with  pistols,  halberds,  and  even  custom- 
house officers'  probes  ;  the  ceaseless  firing  ;  the  gloomy 
and  livid  light,  dimly  illuminating  the  street,  silent  but 
alive  with  motion ;  the  sudden  flashes  seen  from  time  to 
time  in  the  midst  of  the  smoke  ;  the  noise  of  the  mus- 
ketry suddenly  breaking  through  the  silence  ;  the  wound- 
ed men  whom  they  brought  to  the  Cafe*  du  Nord  where 
we  were ;  the  fury  of  the  ragged  populace — all  breathed 
a  tragic  horror. 

How  long  did  this  terrible  scene  last  ?  We  did  not 
know. 

Suddenly  we  see, -through  the  windows  overlooking 
the  yard,  men  running  over  the  roofs  of  the  Palais 
Royal.  The  firing  slackens,  then  ceases. 

The  Revolution  is  accomplished  ! 

We  proceed  on  our  way.     In  the  Rue  de  Valois  the 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST.  183 

air  is  filled  with  a  cloud  of  feathers  from  the  ripped 
mattresses  which  grotesque  figures  are  shaking  out  of 
the  windows  of  the  Palais  Royal.  Hundreds  of  books 
and  engravings  which  have  been  thrown  out  of  the  win- 
dows of  the  library  lie  heaped  in  the  gutter. 

Behind  the  blood-stained  barricade,  in  the  guard- 
house, which  is  on  fire,  the  unfortunate  soldiers  are 
roasting  alive  ! 

What  were  then  our  feelings  ?  It  would  be  difficult 
for  me  to  define  them. 

If  I  remember  aright,  I  think  I  discover  in  the  first 
place  a  great  sadness,  a  profound  disgust  at  the  blood 
which  has  been  shed,  an  overwhelming  pity  for  the  vic- 
tims, but  at  the  same  time  an  indescribable,  all-pervad- 
ing thrill,  an  intensity  of  life,  that  redoubled  the  power 
of  the  senses,  sharpening  the  vision  ar.d  causing  us  to 
receive  a  more  vivid  and  rapid  impression  of  the  acts, 
the  shouts,  and  the  faces  of  this  delirious  crowd  rushing 
through  the  streets  singing  patriotic  hymns. 

In  this  flood  of  emotion  we  felt  ourselves  better  art- 
ists as  well  as  better  citizens,  and,  behind  the  dark 
clouds  of  the  smoke  of  the  revolution,  we  could  see  shin- 
ing the  bright  sun  of  the  future. 

We  walked  toward  the  Tuileries  along  the  quays, 
after  having  retraced  our  steps  through  the  Louvre.  On 
the  Pont  des  Arts  we  saw  a  young  man,  an  officer  of  the 
National  Guard,  with  his  head  bound  in  a  bloody  hand- 
kerchief. They  were  carrying  him  on  a  stretcher,  but 
he  did  not  seem  to  feel  his  wound,  and  was  triumphant- 
ly brandishing  a  branch  of  laurel,  while  he  sang  the 
Air  des  Girondins. 

The  Pavilion  of  Flora  had  been  invaded  by  a  crowd 
intoxicated  with  victory,  who  were  giving  full  sway  to 
their  destructive  instincts. 

Mingled  with  the  debris  thrown  from  the  windows, 


1 84  THE    LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

wine  flowed  along  the  gutters,  and,  as  every  dramatic 
situation  must  have  its  comic  side,  a  wag  had  put  on  the 
red  livery  of  the  valets  of  the  king  and  strutted  about 
on  the  balcony,  haranguing  the  groups  who  danced  on 
the  quay. 

From  a  letter  written  on  the  evening  of  the  same  day 
to  my  uncle  I  copy  the  following  passage  : 

"  The  Rue  St.  Honore"  presents  a  horrifying  specta- 
cle. The  houses  are  riddled  by  bullets  ;  the  pavement 
has  been  torn  up  for  almost  the  entire  length  of  the 
street,  which  is  in  places  covered  with  blood.  This 
evening  almost  all  the  guard-houses  are  on  fire.  The 
emotions  I  have  to-day  experienced  are  so  numerous 
and  so  varied  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  de- 
scribe them.  In  them  horror  and  enthusiasm  are  con- 
fusedly mingled  together." 

Once  masters  of  the  city,  however,  the  people  will 
prove  themselves  capable  of  self-government,  respecting 
the  rights  of  the  individual  and  of  property,  and  them- 
selves shooting  down  the  pillagers. 


LXI. 

THE  causes  that  led  to  this  revolution  and  the  con- 
sequences that  resulted  from  it  exerted  a  powerful  influ- 
ence, as  I  have  said,  on  my  mind,  and  on  that  of  every 
other  artist,  as  well  as  on  the  general  movement  of  art 
and  literature.  In  every  department  new  experiments 
were  tried. 

"  The  new  social  stratum,"  as  Gambetta  called  it 
later  on,  together  with  its  natural  environment,  became 
a  subject  of  study.  There  was  a  deeper  interest  in  the 
life  of  the  street  and  of  the  fields.  The  tastes  and  the 


THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 


I85 


feelings  of  the  poor  were  taken  into  account,  and  art 
conferred  honors  upon  them,  formerly  reserved  for  the 
gods  and  for  the  great. 

If  1830  had  brought  back  feudalism,  1848  will  broaden 
the  popular  field.  Living  nature,  the  nature  that  laughs, 
labors,  and  weeps,  as  well  as  the  nature  which  we  do 
wrong  to  call  inanimate,  will  be  more  closely  studied. 
For  this  nature,  too,  thrills  with  life,  with  its  fields,  its 
skies,  its  waters  and  its  verdure,  its  winds,  its  rains,  its 
snows,  and  its  sunshine — always  vibrant,  always  varied. 

This  movement  had  nothing  in  common  with  the 
experiments  that  it  was  right  and  necessary  to  make  in 
the  absolute  negation  of  what  had  been  accomplished  in 
the  past  in  the  arts.  Tradition,  that  beacon  from  the 
past  which  serves  as  a  light  to  guide  the  future,  was  re- 
spected. 

Genius  met  with  consideration,  and  Delacroix  was 
admired  none  the  less  because  pointed  shoes,  top-boots, 
and  all  the  old-fashioned  wardrobe  of  Romanticism  were 
hung  up  in  the  closet,  together  with  the  Nanterre  cap 
which,  up  to  that  time,  had  served  to  represent  the  cos- 
tume of  the  Greeks  and  Romans. 

The  ancients  were  studied. 

Almost  every  school  of  art,  even  the  Neo-Greek, 
Hamon  and  his  rivals,  profited  by  this  movement  toward 
the  True. 

The  landscape-painters  had  led  the  way — Rousseau, 
Corot,  Cabat,  Diaz,  and  Troyon,  who  was  beginning  to 
win  a  name. 

At  first  there  was  a  return  to  the  Dutch  school.  In 
his  early  pictures,  Rousseau,  in  more  than  one  of  his  char- 
acteristics, recalls  Hobbema. 

I  think  the  influence  of  the  English  school  has  been 
exaggerated.  I  recognize  its  influence,  indeed,  through 
Bonington,  on  Delacroix,  the  Deverias,  and  their  school. 


1 86  THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST. 

But  I  recognize  scarcely  a  trace  of  it  among  our  newer 
landscape-painters,  with  the  exception  of  Paul  Huet, 
whose  part,  however,  has  been  an  unimportant  one. 

Turner  is  a  painter  of  the  Romantic  school,  full  of 
genial  fancy,  when  he  does  not  draw  his  inspiration 
from  Claude  Lorraine. 

Constable,  like  Rousseau,  has  occasionally  shown  the 
influence  of  the  Dutch  school. 

In  reality,  the  Ruysdaels  and  the  Hobbemas  are  the 
real  fathers  of  our  modern  landscape-painting.  They 
have  penetrated  deeply  into  the  secrets  of  Nature,  and 
their  somewhat  conventicnal  execution  does  not  prevent 
them  being  in  the  main  simple  and  true  to  Nature. 

Rousseau  had  studied  their  works  for  a  long  time. 
Then  he  went  to  Fontainebleau,  and  in  gravel-pits  and 
wild  thickets  clothed  in  the  gorgeous  tints  of  autumn, 
he  found  again,  in  part,  the  tones  and  harmonies  of  his 
favorite  masters.  For  a  time  he  saw  with  their  eyes, 
and  then,  retiring  to  the  forest,  and  giving  himself  up  to 
the  study  of  Nature,  he  formed  an  original  style.  He 
painted  some  masterpieces. 

But  he  confined  himself  to  his  own  inspiration  too 
long,  forgot  his  early  teachers,  and  declined  lamentably 
in  his  style  ;  for  it  is  never  well  to  fall  back  too  much 
upon  one's  self. 

Corot,  on  his  side,  derived  his  inspiration  from  Pous- 
sin  and  Claude  Lorraine.  Italy  attracted  him.  The 
beautiful  Campagna  of  Rome,  and,  above  all,  the  tender 
beauty  of  the  Lake  of  Nemi,  filled  his  soul  with  enthu- 
siasm. He  formed  under  this  influence  an  original  style, 
at  once  sublime  and  simple.  He  gave  shape  to  the 
chaste  visions  of  an  imagination,  where  up  to  old  age 
will  bloom  an  eternal  spring. 

Rousseau  gives  us  rugged  gullies  with  steep,  rocky 
sides  and  impenetrable  thickets,  gnarled  oaks  shading 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 

motionless  pools ;  his  springs  are  cold,  his  autumns  red  ; 
Corot  depicts  the  gentler  emotions  of  Nature,  her  virgin 
charms,  her  enchanting  mysteries,  her  serene  grandeur, 
her  flowers  laden  with  dew.  Daubigny,  the  humblest 
and  the  most  natural  of  painters,  depicts  in  all  their 
freshness  the  simple  pleasures  of  country  life  ;  Fromen- 
tin  is  subtle  ;  Francais,  elegant ;  the  solitary  Jules  Du- 
pr£  adopts  a  style  between  Rousseau  and  Troyon. 

But  however  great  may  be  the  originality  of  their 
productions,  all  these  painters — and  I  insist  upon  this 
point — derive  their  inspiration  from  the  Old  Masters, 
and  found  their  art  upon  the  rules  observed  in  their 
greatest  works. 

Courbet  comes  in  1849  witn  tne  intention  of  over- 
throwing past  art  and  constructing  it  anew. 

One  day,  when  we  were  traveling  together  in  Bel- 
gium, he  mentioned  the  works  of  Raphayel  (thus  it  was 
that  he  pronounced  Raphael)  disparagingly,  and  I  said 
to  him,  "  You  deny  his  right  to  fame,  then  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  replied,  "  I  speak  of  him,  therefore  I  ac- 
knowledge it." 

In  the  same  way  he  spoke  of  Titian,  and  other  paint- 
ers like  him,  with  an  air  of  patronage. 

And  we  know  that  no  one  had  less  right  than  he  to 
do  this. 

While  he  assumed  these  disdainful  airs  in  speaking 
of  the  Old  Masters,  he  studied  them  in  the  shelter  of  the 
obscurity  which  enveloped  his  name,  soon  to  resound 
through  the  world  of  art. 

And  what  is  the  result  ?  While,  with  the  sly  secrecy 
of  the  peasant,  he  speaks  only  of  realism,  of  which  he 
proclaims  himself  the  messiah,  his  pictures  show  pre- 
eminently those  qualities  which  are  learned  in  the  muse- 
ums. His  admirable  compositions,  run  in  one  piece,  so 
to  say,  the  beauty  of  his  somber  coloring,  his  harmony 


X88  THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

of  style,  he  owes  in  great  part  to  those  Old  Masters, 
whose  title  to  fame  he  deigns  to  acknowledge. 

His  masterpiece,  "  After  the  Banquet  at  Ornans,"  in 
the  museum  of  Lille,  even  to  the  costume,  might  be  the 
work  of  a  pupil  of  Rembrandt. 

His  fine  painting,  "  The  Man  with  the  Pipe,"  recalls 
Correggio.  "  The  Man  with  the  Leathern  Girdle  "  looks 
as  if  it  might  have  been  hanging  for  centuries  in  the 
Louvre ;  and,  however  startling  his  Interment  may  be, 
and  although  he  has  crowded  it  with  grotesque  details, 
it  is  in  nowise  realistic,  since  the  sun  does  not  shine  in 
it,  and  it  looks  more  dingy  than  a  Ribera. 

Finally,  he  paints  few  open-air  scenes.  He  fre- 
quently copies  the  patina  of  the  Old  Masters,  and  while 
rendering  full  justice  to  the  genuine  though  limited  gifts 
he  has  received  from  Nature,  may  it  not  be  said  of  him 
that,  like  the  wag  who  clothed  himself  in  the  livery  of 
the  Tuilieries  to  preach  his  revolutionary  doctrines,  he 
has  borrowed  the  livery  of  the  Louvre  to  preach  his 
pretended  discoveries  ? 

I  may  add,  besides,  that  if  on  the  one  hand  by  his 
vigor  he  may  have  served  to  stimulate  art,  on  the  other 
hand  he  has  propagated  the  most  detestable  of  abuses — 
the  use  of  the  palette-knife,  which  may  be  attended  with 
the  most  serious  dangers. 

In  contrast  with  him,  our  glorious  Meissonier,  who 
does  more  than  acknowledge  the  title  to  fame  of  the 
Dutch  artists,  gives  striking  and  triumphant  proof  of  his 
qualities  of  observation,  absolute  conscientiousness,  and 
marvelous  clearness  of  vision. 

I  will  speak  later  on  of  the  great  Millet.  At  this 
time  he  was  quite  unknown,  and  his  first  exhibition  in 
the  next  Salon  was  an  CEdipus,  a  strange  picture  in 
which  the  coloring  is  sticky,  and  which  is  at  once  fantas- 
tic, odd,  tame,  and  heavy,  but  through  which  may  be 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 


189 


divined  a  blind  force  seeking  to  free  itself  from  powerful 
influences — a  genuine  but  confused  originality  of  style 
that  halts  between  Michel  Angelo  and  Subleyras. 

This  picture,  which  attracted  but  little  attention  from 
the  public,  produced  in  the  minds  of  his  fellow-painters 
the  emotion  that  told  them  they  stood  in  the  presence 
of  dawning  genius. 

This  movement  of  art  toward  truth  to  Nature  had,  so 
far  as  form  and  modeling  are  concerned,  a  powerful 
leader  in  Ingres,  who  is  still  called  Monsieur  Ingres,  as 
Thiers  will  always  be  called  Monsieur  Thiers,  because 
each  of  them  had  a  bourgeois  side. 

He  was  a  great  and  remarkable  figure,  this  painter, 
whom  Praeult  wittily  called  a  "  Chinese,  strayed  into 
Athens." 

In  his  person,  as  in  his  style,  there  were  surprising 
anomalies. 

Physically  he  has  something  sacerdotal  in  his  ap- 
pearance. 

Is  he  a  dignitary  of  the  Church  or  a  parish  beadle  ? 
One  can  hardly  tell. 

His  proportions  are  almost  grotesque.  He  has  very 
short  legs,  a  large  abdomen,  arms  extraordinarily  long  ; 
the  lower  part  of  the  face  is  wanting  in  dignity ;  the 
nose  is  ordinary,  as  they  say  in  the  passports ;  the  chin 
is  round  and  receding,  the  cheeks  are  large  and  flabby, 
the  mouth  is  sensual,  though  not  wanting  in  character : 
this  is  the  beadle  side.  But  the  eyes  and  the  forehead 
are  extremely  beautiful.  The  dark  pupils  seem  to  flash 
fire  under  the  eyebrows,  which  indicate  strong  self-will, 
modified  by  the  descending  line  toward  the  temple,  in- 
dicating piety.  Here  we  seem  to  see  the  highest  digni- 
tary in  the  World  of  Art. 

The  same  contradiction  exists  in  his  talent. 

In  the  beginning  a  disciple  of  David,  he  fell,  later  on, 


190  THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

under  the  influence  of  Raphael.  He  soon  had  flashes 
of  sentiment,  which  revealed  to  him  marvelous  accents 
of  nature. 

In  an  inspiration  of  genius  he  recognized  the  senti- 
ment of  Phidias.  Of  Phidias  !  The  divinest  incarna- 
tion of  the  living  ideal  !  Then  Ingres,  like  another 
Polyeuctus,  dethrones  the  false  gods.  Down  with 
you,  Venus  de'  Medici  and  Apollo  Belvedere,  whom  our 
fathers  and  David  himself  have  worshiped  !  Your  prog- 
eny, with  their  insipid  bea-uty,  their  cold  eyes,  their 
limbs  rounded  like  architectural  moldings,  is  already 
numerous  enough.  Down  with  you  !  And,  indeed, 
some  admirable  compositions  he  attains  to  ideality  of 
form,  expressive  and  beautiful  without  being  insipid, 
graceful  delineation,  firm  and  flexible  modeling,  richness 
and  variety  of  composition. 

As  I  have  said,  he  attains  this  by  flashes,  for  he 
places  side  by  side  beauties  of  the  highest  order,  and 
defects  that  are  ridiculous  at  times,  making  limbs  which 
seem  to  have  no  joints,  twisting  the  bones,  spoiling  no- 
ble conceptions  by  childish  blunders  or  bourgeois  vul- 
garity. 

David,  in  whom  the  influences  of  the  pretty  antiques 
of  the  Decadence  has  stifled  so  many  natural  gifts — 
David,  too,  in  his  hours  of  freedom,  had  felt  the  power- 
ful spell  of  Nature,  as  had  Gros,  whose  heroic  genius, 
however,  took  bolder  flights,  and  the  valiant  Ge'ricault, 
and  the  tender  and  dramatic  Prudhon  ;  but  in  the  French 
school  no  one  before  Ingres  had  realized  the  formula  of 
lifelike  and  varied  composition. 

There  is  no  doubt  that,  counting  among  its  members 
the  painters  I  have  mentioned,  the  French  school  was  in 
advance  of  every  contemporary  school. 

But  there  was  something  it  had  not  yet  even  sought 
to  attain — the  relations  between  the  human  figure  and 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST.  jgi 

inanimate  nature.  It  had  not  yet  succeeded  in  asso- 
ciating fully  animate  and  inanimate  life,  in  making  the 
figures  respond  to  the  life  around  them,  in  making  them 
participate  in  all  the  phenomena  of  the  heavens  and  the 
earth,  in  making  them  breathe  their  natural  element,  air. 

The  "  Battle  of  Eylau  "  is  a  singularly  moving  drama, 
the  work  of  a  great  painter,  and  one  of  our  finest  pict- 
ures ;  but  the  figures  are  neither  under  the  sky  nor,  in 
their  values,  on  the  snow.  The  "  Shipwreck  of  the  Medu- 
sa" is  a  noble  and  heroic  composition,  full  of  boldness 
and  technical  power,  but  the  black  and  bituminous 
shadows  are  out  of  place,  the  composition  is  too  compli- 
cated, the  whole  is  wanting  in  atmosphere.  The  "  Mas- 
sacre of  Scio,"  the  "  Bark  of  Dante,"  and  several  others 
of  the  paintings  of  Delacroix,  have  the  elements  proper 
to  them.  The  atmosphere,  tragic  and  at  times  sublime, 
that  surrounds  them,  is  a  pure  creation  of  the  genius  of 
the  master.  So,  too,  is  his  design,  wonderful  for  its  wild 
beauties,  as  well  as  for  its  fascinating  blemishes.  Al- 
though forming  his  style  on  Rubens,  Tintoretto,  and  the 
English  school,  Delacroix,  whose  head  looked  like  a  sick 
lion's,  is  a  genius  who  must  always  remain  alone.  Woe 
to  the  painter  who  seeks  to  approach  him  !  He  is  not 
one  of  the  leaders  of  the  movement  of  1848,  like  Rous- 
seau and  Corot. 

And  were  there  other  precursors  of  the  contemporary 
school  ? 

And  when  I  say  contemporary  art,  I  do  not  mean 
that  which  only  seeks  after  what  is  called  the  modern 
spirit,  a  high-sounding  name,  which  too  often  only  means 
the  mode. 

Art  concerns  itself  only  with  eternal  laws,  not  with 
ephemeral  caprices. 

A  serious  attempt  toward  the  new  movement  had 
also  been  made  by  an  artist  greatly  disparaged  at  pres- 


I92 


THE  LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 


ent.  There  is  not  a  dauber  who  does  not  heap  sarcasms 
upon  him,  and  I  must  be  careful  how  I  mention  his 
name.  It  can  not  be  helped  if  I  should  be  considered  a 
bourgeois,  a  "  philistine,"  as  Gautier  says.  I  will  con- 
quer all  false  shame,  and  confess  that  I  mean  poor 
Leopold  Robert.  Whatever  the  errand-boys  of  the  stu- 
dios may  say,  I  prefer  his  pictures  to  those  curiosities  in 
yellow  and  violet  of  artists  who  seem  to  think  they  have 
a  monopoly  of  atmosphere. 

Ah  !  they  may  heap  insult  upon  him,  but  they  can 
never  be  as  cruel  to  him  as  he  was  to  himself,  as  his 
suicide  proves. 

Yes ;  he  is  theatrical,  affected,  hard,  thin,  and  dis- 
cordant, but  he  had  a  clearness  of  vision  peculiarly  his 
own  ;  he  was  consumed  by  a  love  of  the  beautiful !  He 
was  the  first  to  make  a  serious  study  of  the  peasant, 
whom  he  loved  with  the  ardor  and  sensibility  of  his 
poetic  nature. 

His  energy  was  great,  his  sincerity  absolute,  and  the 
result,  in  truth,  was  not  contemptible.  He  has  caught 
the  glow,  the  sun-browned  hue;  the  fine,  harmonious 
lines. 

I  find  in  his  brick-red  carnations  certain  flashes  of 
blue  which  make  them  like  Nature's  self,  and  of  which 
the  painters  who  preceded  him  had  scarcely  any  knowl- 
edge. He  has  not  reached  the  goal,  indeed,  but  he  has 
pointed  the  way. 

One  must  read  his  letters  to  understand  the  dissatis- 
faction with  which  he  regarded  his  pictures,  so  far  short 
did  they  fall  of  his  visions. 

And  yet  how  enthusiastically  admired  he  was  by  men 
like  Lamartine,  De  Musset,  and  Heine  ! 

And  why  is  it,  notwithstanding  all  that  has  been  said 
against  him,  that  he  is  not  forgotten  ;  that  people  go  to 
look  at  his  pictures  and  to  copy  them  ? 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 


193 


It  is  because  the  work  of  an  artist  lives  in  proportion 
to  what  he  has  put  into  it  of  himself ! 

He  has  imitators  who  are  his  superiors  in  technical 
skill,  it  may  be,  but  posterity  will  forget  them.  Why  ? 
Is  it  solely  because  they  were  imitators  ?  The  originals 
they  copied  from  might  disappear,  yet  their  work  would 
survive  none  the  longer  for  it.  They  die  because  being 
imitators  and  having  nothing  of  their  own  to  express, 
they  have  been  unable  to  impregnate  their  productions 
with  that  elusive  quality  which  is  the  soul  of  the  artist — 
his  passion,  his  love,  his  suffering,  his  life. 


LXII. 

DELALLEAU  soon  quitted  architecture  and  returned 
to  the  Drolling  studio. 

Every  day,  more  and  more  absorbed  in  politics,  and 
always  placing  himself  on  the  side  of  the  most  advanced 
opinions,  he  accused  me  of  being  a  reactionary,  and  did 
not  cease  to  lecture  me.  He  went  beyond  the  truth  ;  I 
felt  myself,  on  the  contrary,  strongly  drawn  toward  the 
Republican  party. 

We  considered  it  a  duty,  as  Republicans,  to  give  the 
Royalists  a  piece  of  our  mind  whenever  the  occasion 
offered,  and  to  take  our  beefsteak  smelling  of  burned 
fat,  in  the  restaurants  of  friends  and  brothers  whose 
sign-boards  bore  an  equilateral  triangle,  and  where, 
when  we  asked  for  a  beignet-montaguard  (fritter  with 
gooseberry  jam),  the  waiter  answered,  "  Here  it  is, 
citizen." 

We  attended  the  clubs,  sometimes  taking  our  places 
among  the  audience,  again  as  members  of  the  commit- 
tee, and  at  times  even  remaining  in  the  little  sentry-box 
13 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 

at  the  entrance  to  receive  the  ten  centimes  which  each 
citizen  contributed  to  the  emancipation  of  the  people. 
All  this  conferred  some  importance  upon  us,  but,  to 
speak  the  truth,  we  were  somewhat  in  the  position  of 
the  fly  on  the  coach-wheel. 

But  it  was  not  long  before  I  returned  to  Courrieres, 
whither  I  was  called  by  the  alarming  state  of  my  father's 
health,  and  my  longing  for  home. 


LXIII. 

I  SHOULD  like  to  throw  a  veil  over  this  sojourn  at 
Courrieres — a  time  which  has  left  me  so  many  gloomy 
memories.  Courrieres,  too,  had  had  its  little  revolu- 
tion. 

My  father  and  my  uncle,  who  had  always  taken  a 
great  interest  in  public  affairs,  and  were  very  popular, 
had  long  been  at  war  with  the  former  authorities  of  the 
village,  who  were  animated,  for  the  most  part,  by  a 
spirit  of  selfishness  and  routine. 

My  father  had  sustained  the  struggle  with  calmness, 
but  my  uncle,  who  was  of  a  more  ardent  temperament, 
and  who  had  long  before  given  utterance  to  his  repub- 
lican sentiments,  notably  in  his  History  of  Courrieres, 
and  in  the  letters  which  he  published  later  under  the 
title  of  Mistres  Morales,  had  given  a  rude  shock  to  the 
self-willed  obstinacy,  the  vanity,  and  at  times  the  bad 
faith  of  our  municipal  functionaries. 

At  the  first  news  of  the  events  in  Paris,  the  people 
of  the  village  had  flocked  to  the  house  of  my  father,  who 
was  then  ill,  and,  insisting  on  having  him  for  their  mayor, 
had  carried  him  in  triumph  to  the  town-hall  with  such 
demonstrations  of  enthusiasm,  that,  moved  to  tears,  he 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 


'9S 


cried  out :  "  Thanks,  my  children,  enough  ;  you  will 
make  me  die  of  joy  !  " 

Alas  !  this  joy  was  of  short  duration.  He  found 
himself  involved  in  a  thousand  difficulties  in  his  private 
affairs.  He  had  sold  fine  estates  which  brought  a  regu- 
lar income,  in  order  to  buy  a  part  of  the  forest  of  the 
Armerois  in  the  Belgian  Ardennes.  (His  passion  for 
forests  will  be  remembered.)  He  had  gone  to  great  ex- 
pense in  making  roads  and  other  improvements,  and 
just  as  he  was  about  to  reap  the  benefit  of  this  outlay, 
he  felt  that  his  end  was  drawing  near  (he  never  confided 
his  troubles  to  any  one),  and  he  at  that  time  resolved 
to  establish  my  brother  Louis  in  the  brewery,  and  firnile 
in  another  factory,  which  he  had  caused  to  be  built  at 
great  cost. 

The  Revolution  having  destroyed  credit,  he  was 
forced  to  sell  the  forest,  which  he  did  under  disastrous 
conditions. 

Little  by  little  we  felt  the  embarrassments  occasioned 
by  diminished  resources,  but  all  we  thought  of  was  the 
illness  of  my  father,  who  soon  quitted  us,  leaving  my 
uncle  to  bear  the  whole  burden.  He  died  on  the  nth 
of  May,  1848,  from  an  affection  of  the  liver,  complicated 
with  heart-disease. 

The  grief  caused  by  this  loss  rendered  my  brothers 
and  myself  almost  insensible  to  the  ruin  which  threat- 
ened soon  to  overwhelm  us.  I  will  say  nothing  of  this 
grief,  nor  of  the  tears  shed  by  the  worthy  peasants,  at 
the  interment  of  this  good  man. 

The  law  permitted  us  to  accept  our  inheritance  with- 
out making  ourselves  responsible  for  the  payment  of  the 
debts  of  the  estate  beyond  the  amount  of  the  assets. 
We  refused  to  cast  this  insult  on  my  father's  venerated 
memory.  We  accepted  our  inheritance  with  all  its  re- 
sponsibilities. 


!96  THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

We  were  rewarded  for  this.  The  creditors,  too,  were 
grateful  to  us,  for  having  given  up  our  mother's  property 
which  we  had  the  right  to  claim.  The  consideration 
enjoyed  by  our  family  suffered  in  no  way  from  this  re- 
verse of  fortune,  although  our  ruin  brought  with  it  that 
of  my  uncle  also.  Notwithstanding  this,  he  was  unani- 
mously elected  mayor,  in  place  of  his  brother,  and  after- 
ward he  was  elected  councilor  of  the  district. 

My  father  was  born  in  1796,  and  my  uncle  in  1798. 
They  were  the  sons  of  Lambert  Breton  and  Catharine 
Hottin.  I  have  already  related  a  part  of  the  life  of  my 
grandfather.  The  brothers  Breton  were  still  very  young 
when  they  lost  their  parents.  My  father  was  brought  up 
at  Courrieres  in  the  house  of  his  guardian,  Isidore 
Lecocq,  the  husband  of  the  Cousin  Catherine,  with 
whom  you  are  already  acquainted.  You  know  the  rest. 

My  uncle,  then  a  child  in  arms,  was  carried  to  Wa- 
waghies,  to  the  house  of  his  Grandmother  Hottin,  and 
there  he  grew  up  in  the  sylvan  solitude  of  the  woods. 
He  ran  among  the  hedges,  wild  as  a  little  savage,  spend- 
ing his  time  in  childish  sports  with  little  playmates  as 
wild  as  himself. 

This  education,  or,  rather  this  absence  of  education, 
inspired  him  with  a  profound  love  for  sylvan  nature,  at 
whose  vivifying  springs  he  had  early  drunk. 

How  many  poetic  descriptions  he  has  given  me  of 
those  long-past  days,  descriptions  which  have  contrib- 
uted to  develop  in  me  a  passion  for  the  beauties  of  na- 
ture! 

At  the  age  of  twelve  he  returned  to  Courrieres  to  at- 
tend the  village  school,  where  a  master  more  pretentious 
than  learned  gave  him  the  only  instruction  he  ever  re- 
ceived. 

He  surrounded  himself  with  books,  which  he  read 
with  avidity ;  he  labored  indefatigably  to  store  his  mind 


THE   LIFE  OF   AN   ARTIST. 


I97 


with  knowledge,  taking  notes  from  every  book  he  read, 
digested  this  medley  as  best  he  could,  and  when  he  went 
to  Lille,  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  to  enter  business,  he 
surprised  everybody  by  the  extent  of  his  learning.  He 
was  employed  in  various  banking  and  business  houses, 
his  employers  all  entertaining  a  strong  friendship  for 
him,  and  having  implicit  confidence  in  him. 

He  spent  all  his  savings  in  adding  to  his  stock  of 
books  and  knowledge,  studying  in  his  leisure  hours  ;  he 
rilled  many  copy-books  with  notes,  dipped  into  various 
sciences,  and  learned  music.  In  the  evenings  he  would 
go  to  the  theatre  or  to  some  party. 

His  visit  to  our  house  during  my  mother's  lifetime 
will  be  remembered.  You  know  how;  after  her  death, 
he  came  to  live  with  us  in  order  to  devote  himself  to  our 
education.  I  need  say  no  more.  This  tells  what  he  was. 

His  mind  was  a  veritable  encyclopaedia.  Lack  of 
method,  however,  always  prevented  him  from  systema- 
tizing his  knowledge. 

With  all  this,  he  was  simple-hearted  in  the  extreme 
and  devoted  to  us  beyond  measure. 

What  would  we  have  been  without  him  ? 

If  grief  for  my  father's  death  and  the  indifference 
to  material  interests  natural  to  youth  made  us  view  our 
approaching  ruin  with  comparative  indifference,  such 
was  not  the  case  with  my  uncle,  who  regarded  our  future 
as  blighted. 

He  displayed  an  indefatigable  activity,  leaving  no 
stone  unturned  to  avert  the  impending  catastrophe. 

He  had  moments  of  keen  anguish. 

One  day  when  he  was  going  to  Lille  to  try  to  avert 
the  disgrace  of  a  protested  note,  he  arrived  too  late  for 
the  train  at  the  station  of  Libercourt. 

He  was  thus  obliged,  with  despair  in  his  soul,  to 
wait  two  or  three  hours  for  another  train. 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

Distressed  in  mind  as  he  was,  he  found  it  impossible 
to  remain  in  a  state  of  inaction. 

In  front  of  the  station  the  woods  of  Libercourt  and 
Wawaghies,  where  he  had  spent  his  happy  childhood, 
began.  He  plunged  into  them,  walking  on  at  random. 
He  saw  again  the  paths  his  childish  feet  had  trod,  and 
which  still  bore,  so  to  speak,  traces  of  the  sports  of  his 
youthful  days.  Here  he  had  played  cricket.  There  he 
had  shot  with  the  bow  and  arrow,  and  he  remembered 
how  once,  when  he  had  hit  the  bull's-eye,  his  little  play- 
mates had  carried  him  in  triumph. 

He  thinks  he  hears  again  their  clear  and  joyous 
shouts,  he  breathes  again  the  perfume  of  the  lily  of  the 
valley,  the  pungent  aroma  of  the  oaks.  A  thousand 
recollections  rend  his  soul,  making  his  anguish  keener, 
and  the  temptation  to  end  his  life  begins  to  assail  him. 
He  walks  on.  He  arrives  at  an  opening  where  two 
roads  meet.  Here  an  old  oak  rises  up  before  him. 

Close  to  the  trunk  of  this  tree  is  a  little  chapel  of 
worm-eaten  wood,  wreathed  with  hawthorn  and  withered 
flowers.  He  recognizes  it  ;  it  was  there  when  he  was  a 
child.  This  sends  his  thoughts  back  to  the  past.  He 
dreams. 

On  leaving  Wawaghies,  at  the  age  of  twelve,  he  had 
been  accompanied  thus  far  by  the  little  Helene,  a  gen- 
tle child,  who  soon  afterward  died.  They  were  only 
simple  children,  but  they  loved  each  other.  Their  part- 
ing was  full  of  sorrow.  They  knelt  down  before  the 
Virgin  of  the  little  chapel  and  repeated  a  pure  prayer 
which  must  have  moved  to  pity  the  birds  flying  past. 
And  my  uncle  remembered  all  this,  and  he,  the  philoso- 
pher, the  disciple  of  Fourier,  the  pupil  of  Voltaire  and 
Rousseau,  threw  himself  on  his  knees  and  prayed  to 
this  Madonna  hidden  in  the  heart  of  the  forest. 

His  courage  revived ;  he  went  to  Lille  and  made  his 


THE   LIFE  OF   AN   ARTIST. 


199 


situation  known  to  a  true  friend,  who  came  to  his  as- 
sistance. 

I  shall  dwell  no  longer  on  our  misfortunes.  Some 
time  afterward  we  settled  our  affairs  under  the  disas- 
trous conditions  which  those  who  passed  through  the 
crisis  of  1848  will  remember.  Nothing  brought  at  the 
sale  a  fourth  of  its  value.  All  was  lost  save  honor. 

And  we  returned  to  our  occupations  with  sixty  or 
eighty  thousand  francs  of  debts  before  us.  Little  by 
little  we  paid  them  all  off. 

The  brewery  was  our  plank  of  safety.  A  friend  had 
bought  it,  rented  it  to  us,  and  afterward  sold  it  to  us. 
It  was  bid  for  eagerly  for  the  same  reasons  that  made 
us  desire  to  keep  it.  Louis  continued  to  manage  it. 

6mile  enlisted  in  the  Sixty-sixth  of  the  line,  and  set 
out  for  Toulouse,  where  that  regiment  then  was. 

My  uncle  and  I  remained  for  some  time  longer  in 
the  empty  house  now  bereft  of  its  master. 

All  the  furniture  had  been  sold,  as  well  as  the  fine 
wines  so  highly  esteemed  by  our  friends,  and  the  figures 
painted  by  Fremy. 

A  little  white  wooden  table  supporting  a  common 
wash-basin  replaced  the  former  furniture  of  my  room. 
I  saw  this  bareness  without  grief.  I  need  not  say  with 
what  my  sad  thoughts  were  occupied. 

And  when  more  tranquil  hours  came,  when  new 
blossoms  of  happiness  opened  in  my  heart — flowers  sud- 
denly springing  into  bloom  amid  ruins,  joys  that  I  re- 
proached myself  with,  regarding  them  as  the  rebellious 
protest  of  selfishness,  but  which  were  the  more  irre- 
sistible as  being  the  secret  agencies  of  the  immutable 
laws  of  compensation  and  reaction — then  I  found  an  in- 
describable charm  in  this  modest  wooden  table,  which 
seemed  to  symbolize  rural  simplicity,  and  in  thinking 
that  henceforward  I  was  to  be  poor. 


203  THE  LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST. 

It  was  something  like  a  relief  to  be  rid  of  so  many 
artificial  and  useless  objects,  and  I  felt  a  stronger  sen- 
timent of  fraternity  than  before  with  the  peasants  whom 
I  had  always  loved,  and  whom  I  began  to  regard  with 
stronger  affection  in  the  lull  succeeding  so  much  anguish 
and  so  many  misfortunes. 

Like  them,  we  began  to  wear  the  blouse ;  we  min- 
gled more  intimately  with  them  in  their  reunions  and 
amusements,  and  we  have  never  found  them  to  fail  in 
respect  toward  us,  or  to  presume  on  our  familiarity. 

Thus  it  was  that  there  grew  up  in  my  artist-heart  a 
stronger  affection  for  the  nature,  the  obscure  acts  of 
heroism,  and  the  beauty  of  the  lives  of  the  peasantry 
fostered  by  the  pure  joy  and  the  fruitful  peace  which 
the  spectacle  of  the  immensity  of  the  plains  receding 
into  silence  and  infinity  produces  in  the  soul. 


LXIV. 

BUT,  if  it  be  true  that  I  had  never  felt  more  strongly 
than  now  this  peace,  this  joy  that  is  to  be  found  in  na- 
ture, I  did  not  yet  understand  its  value  from  an  artistic 
point  of  view. 

I  had,  in  reality,  never  tried  to  paint  nature.  My 
ideal  was  still  to  be  found  exclusively  in  the  museums. 

And  in  the  works  of  the  great  masters  I  was  much 
more  impressed  by  external  form,  imposed  upon  them 
by  the  circumstances  of  their  surroundings,  than  by  the 
essential  qualities  of  their  pictures,  those  qualities  that, 
developed  by  a  profound  study  of  natural  laws,  consti- 
tute their  eternal  essence.  I  thought  them  beautiful 
chiefly  because  of  their  subjects,  beautiful  in  them- 
selves, the  expression  of  which  they  had  succeeded  in 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST.  2QI 

realizing,  and  which  I  believed  to  be  no  longer  in  exist- 
ence, and  to  be  sought  for  only  in  the  history  of  the 
past. 

"  Happy  the  painters,"  I  thought,  "  who  had  only  to 
open  their  eyes  to  see  marvels."  I  never  suspected  that 
these  marvels  are  everywhere  around  us. 

I  should  never  have  insulted  Phidias  by  supposing 
that  that  little  gleaner  bending  yonder  over  the  stubble 
could  for  a  single  moment  attract  his  attention. 

I  did  not  comprehend  Phidias  sufficiently,  or  rather 
I  knew  too  little  of  nature  to  be  aware  that  the  im- 
mutable laws  which  governed  the  creations  of  the  great 
sculptor  manifest  themselves  also  in  the  attitude  and 
the  forms  of  this  humble  peasant,  with  her  rags  float- 
ing in  the  breeze. 

I  had  not  yet  sought  inspiration  in  the  recollections 
of  my  childhood,  that  mysterious  world  that  in  mature 
years  seems  clothed  in  light.  I  had  not  yet  found  (for 
though  it  be  true  that  there  is  nothing  new  under  the 
sun,  we  must  discover  everything  anew,  or  else  be  copy- 
ists) that  what  is  best  is  what  we  have  unconsciously 
felt  at  the  outset  of  life  when  we  first  opened  our  eyes 
to  the  light,  and  that  what  is  most  beautiful  in  the  world 
is  to  be  met  with  everywhere.  A  truth  too  evident  to  be 
at  once  accepted  as  such. 

Ignorance  admires  only  what  is  not  simple,  and  is 
affected  or  labored  in  expressing  itself. 

An  epoch  must  pass  through  a  stage  of  affectation, 
artificiality,  and  false  refinement  before  it  returns  to  a 
comprehension  of  the  simple  in  art. 

This  ignorance,  and  the  sympathy  I  felt  for  the  dis- 
inherited of  fortune,  turned  me  at  first  toward  melodra- 
matic subjects  taken  from  the  life  of  the  people.  I  was 
impelled  to  this  by  my  recollection,  still  vivid,  of  the 
scenes  of  the  Revolution,  which  passed  continually  be- 


2O2  THE  LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST. 

fore  my  mind.  I  thought  to  attain  great  results  by  vio- 
lent means. 

I  had  tried  in  vain  to  make  some  use  of  my  sketch 
in  the  garden  of  the  Luxembourg.  In  the  painting  I 
made  from  it,  the  first  impression  was  wanting.  The 
result  was  pitiable.  Then  I  painted  a  "  Susannah  in  the 
Bath,"  according  to  the  rules  learned  in  the  studio  ;  but 
this  little  picture,  which  I  keep  for  my  punishment,  is  so 
bad  that  if  a  student  of  twenty  were  to  bring  me  one 
like  it  I  should  say,  "  Go,  and  become  a  bricklayer  !  " 

When  it  happens  now  that  I  am  hurt  by  a  criticism 
which  I  think  unjust,  I  say  to  myself  by  way  of  consola- 
tion :  "  Do  not  forget  that  you  painted  a  *  Susannah  in 
the  Bath,'  and  that  you  could  not  then  dream  of  ever 
obtaining  a  quarter  of  the  success  you  have  since  ob- 
tained !  " 

In  this  state  of  discouragement  I  had  a  vision  one 
night,  when  I  was  unable  to  sleep,  of  a  lugubrious  com- 
position. 

I  saw  a  garret.  A  woman  was  lying  there  on  a  mis- 
erable pallet.  Her  face  was  livid,  her  cheeks  hollow, 
her  eyes  red  with  weeping,  her  clothes  in  tatters.  Half 
rising  out  of  the  sinister  shadow,  she  clasped  to  her  with- 
ered breast,  with  her  emaciated  arm,  an  infant  with 
frightful  agony  depicted  on  its  countenance,  while  with 
her  other  thin  and  bony  hand  she  clutched  the  blouse 
of  her  husband,  who  was  breaking  from  her  in  a  parox- 
ysm of  desperation. 

Arrested  for  a  moment  in  his  course,  he  turns 
toward  her,  but  he  is  inflexible  ;  he  grasps  his  musket, 
with  the  purpose  of  going  to  the  barricade  that  is  seen 
through  the  window,  in  the  frame  of  which  is  a  bullet- 
hole  that  lets  the  light  enter,  and  it  is  in  vain  that  the 
crucifix  suspended  to  the  wall  under  a  branch  of  box, 
seems  to  plead  for  pity. 


THE   LIFE  OF   AN   ARTIST. 


203 


With  the  purpose  of  painting  this  picture,  I  started 
at  once  for  Ghent,  after  I  had  given  the  last  touches  to 
a  little  portrait  of  my  mother  which  I  had  painted 
from  a  poor  pastel  made  by  an  itinerant  artist  who  had 
passed  through  our  village  in  1829  This  pastel,  which 
possessed  no  merit  as  a  work  of  art,  has  since  been  lost. 
What  would  I  not  give  to  recover  it  !  Little  merit  as 
it  had,  at  least  it  was  painted  from  nature.  Perhaps 
now,  with  greater  experience,  I  might  be  able  to  disen- 
tangle from  it  what  the  simple  artist  saw,  and  unite  with 
his  rude  observation  my  still  vivid  remembrance  of  that 
sacred  shade  who  mingled  her  life  forever  with  mine 
in  the  effusion  of  her  first  caresses. 


LXV. 

DE  VIGNE  no  longer  lived  in  the  Rue  de  la  Line. 
He  had  built  a  pretty  house,  the  first  fruits  of  his  sav- 
ings, in  the  Rue  Charles  V,  a  handsome  street  recently 
created  among  the  fields. 

My  friends  were  shocked  at  the  horrible  nature  of 
my  subject,  and  at  my  intention  of  painting  it  life-size. 
This  experiment  had,  in  fact,  scarcely  any  precedent. 
Courbet  had  not  yet  revealed  himself. 

And  then  was  I  capable  of  executing  it  ? 

Evidently  not ! 

What  need  to  undertake  so  horrible  a  subject  ? 

No  matter.  I  put  on  a  bold  face.  Why  should  I 
take  the  sentimentalism  of  the  vulgar  into  considera- 
tion ? 

Was  I  not  one  of  the  people  ?  Had  we  not  just 
overthrown  all  tyranny  ? 

I  set  to  work  on  my  picture,  then,  with  ardor,  with- 


204  THE  LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST- 

out  listening  to  the  remonstrances  of  my  friends.  In 
vain  De  Vigne  made  me  observe  that  I  was  exaggerat- 
ing the  expression,  that  my  coloring,  through  my  efforts 
to  make  it  dramatic,  was  coarse  and  muddy  ;  in  vain 
the  artists  of  the  place  said  among  themselves  that  it 
was  painted  all  with  one  color.  I  put  the  last  touch  to  it, 
and  then  bravely  signed  my  name. 

Strange  power  of  contrast ;  while  my  imagination 
was  plunged  among  these  tenebrous  shadows,  the  gentle 
daughter  of  the  house  would  often  glide  to  my  side  with 
frightened  eyes  whenever  any  errand  chanced  to  call 
her  to  her  father's  studio. 

She  passed  silently  and  seriously.  There  was  no 
more  dancing  her  on  my  knees. 

She  was  now  twelve  years  old.  Strange  and  mysteri- 
ous emotions  were  agitating  her.  At  times  she  would 
burst  into  fits  of  laughter  which  she  could  not  control, 
and  which  ended  in  a  torrent  of  apparently  causeless 
tears. 

She  was  the  first  in  her  class  in  all  her  studies,  and 
would  tell  charming  little  stories  full  of  unconscious 
drolleries.  She  was  still  a  child  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
Her  first  words  on  returning  from  school  at  midday 
were  always,  "  I  am  so  hungry  !  "  The  hunger-pang 
of  a  little  growing  angel. 


LXVI. 

I  BECAME  more  intimate  with  Delalleau  every  day. 
In  the  spring  of  1849  we  hired  together  a  studio  and 
two  little  rooms  under  the  roof,  at  No.  53  Rue  Notre- 
Dame-des-Champs.  I  saw  recently,  with  regret,  that 
this  house  had  been  rebuilt. 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST.  205 

The  moderateness  of  the  price — 350  francs — and  the 
neighborhood  of  the  Luxembourg,  had  decided  our 
choice. 

I  was  alone  there  in  the  beginning.  Delalleau  was 
in  the  Pas-de-Calais,  taking  sketches  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Hesdin,  his  native  place.  He  wrote  me  letters  from 
there  that  were  every  day  more  and  more  enthusiastic, 
in  which  politics  were  mingled  with  the  raptures  pro- 
duced in  his  mind  by  the  beautiful  scenery  of  Artois. 

My  picture,  which  I  called  "  Want  and  Despair," 
was  at  the  Tuileries,  where  the  exhibition  was  to  be 
held. 

I  had  learned  with  inexpressible  delight,  through  an 

indiscretion  on  the  part  of  L.  D ,  my  door-keeper 

of  the  Louvre,  at  this  time  attached  to  the  service  of  the 
Salon,  that  it  had  been  accepted.  He  acquainted  me 
with  all  that  passed  there.  My  picture  was  hung  in  the 
Orangery,  on  the  wall  fronting  the  quay.  I  went  to  see 
from  the  outside  the  precise  spot  where  it  must  be  hang- 
ing. 

As  to  the  effect  it  produced,  I  could  not  form  to  my- 
self any  exact  idea.  While  I  was  painting  it,  it  had  ap- 
peared to  me  every  day  under  a  different  aspect,  accord- 
ing to  the  weather  or  my  mood. 

What  I  saw  oftenest  in  it  was  my  vision  of  the  night. 
Surely  it  must  express  what  I  had  so  clearly  seen.  And 

then  the  good  D had  prophesied  wonders  in  regard 

to  it. 

This  state  of  anxious  suspense  lasted  six  entire 
weeks  ! 

And  when  I  say  that  during  all  this  time  I  did  not 
sleep,  it  is  not  a  figure  of  speech.  I  did  not  sleep  for  a 
single  instant.  I  tried  in  vain  baths,  opium,  and  various 
other  remedies  recommended  by  friends  of  mine  who 
were  students  at  the  School  of  Medicine. 


206  THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST. 

This  state  of  things  had  disordered  my  stomach.  I 
felt  some  symptoms  which  alarmed  me  for  a  time,  for 
around  me,  as  in  every  other  quarter  of  Paris,  cholera 
was  raging.  The  thought  of  the  plague  did  not  serve  to 
enliven  my  hours  of  sleeplessness.  What  if  I  should 
have  the  misfortune  to  fall  a  victim  to  it  before  the 
opening  of  the  Salon  ! 

It  came  at  last,  this  long- wished  for  day !  Delalleau 
had  returned.  We  hurried  to  the  Orangery.  From  the 
moment  of  our  entrance,  I  perceived  from  afar  those 
wretched  figures,  melancholy  and  gray,  too  well-known, 
though  so  different  from  those  I  had  seen  in  my  vision. 
In  vain  Delalleau  declared  that  the  painting  was  full  of 
energy,  that  the  vigor  of  its  coloring  and  design  made 
the  pictures  around  seem  weak.  I  saw  that  my  tragic 
vision  of  the  night  would  have  done  better  to  wait  for  a 
less  inexpert  interpreter. 

Later  on,  this  picture  was  rolled  up  and  hidden  away 
in  a  damp  corner  of  the  studio.  When  I  went  to  unroll 
it,  it  fell  to  pieces.  In  fine,  five  or  six  newspapers  had 
mentioned  it,  and  I  was  not  altogether  dissatisfied  with 
my  debut. 

This  was  not  the  last  of  my  attempts,  however,  in  this 
lugubrious  line.  I  thought  of  a  composition  more  hor- 
rible still — "  Hunger."  This  latter  picture  was  exhib- 
ited at  Paris  in  1850,  and  afterward  at  Ghent  and  Brus- 
sels, where  it  obtained  some  degree  of  success. 

It  still  exists,  but  in  a  deplorable  condition.  It  is 
the  common  fate  of  all  large  first  paintings  to  be  rolled  up, 
and  put  away  in  some  corner  to  make  room  for  others. 
Mine  had  already  suffered  in  consequence  of  this  treat- 
ment when  I  presented  it  to  the  Museum  of  Arras, 
where  an  ignorant  picture-restorer  finished  the  work  of 
destruction  by  repairing  the  canvas  in  such  a  manner  that 
it  seems  to  have  as  many  waves  in  it  as  a  sea  in  a  storm. 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST. 


LXVII. 


207 


WERE  it  not  for  the  dark  track  left  by  the  cholera 
this  year,  1849,  would  have  been  a  happy  one,  especially 
in  comparison  with  my  recent  misfortunes.  I  painted 
with  ardor,  and,  however  imperfect  my  works  might  be, 
I  created.  And  creation  is  happiness. 

The  painting  "  Want  and  Despair,"  still  hanging  on 
the  wall,  and  that  of  "  Hunger,"  resting  on  the  easel,  did 
not  tend,  it  is  true,  to  give  a  cheerful  air  to  the  studio, 
somewhat  gloomy  in  itself,  and  where  some  rough 
sketches  brought  back  by  Delalleau  from  Artois  were 
the  only  cheerful  notes. 

But  when  we  emerged  from  its  gray  light  in  our 
hours  of  rest,  the  sun  seemed  to  shine  all  the  more 
brightly  in  the  Garden  of  Marie  de  Medicis,  a  few  steps 
away,  where  he  darted  his  arrows  among  the  foliage  of 
the  beautiful  chestnut  trees,  and  lighted  up  with  vivid 
flames  the  pomegranate  blossoms.  How  beautiful  this 
garden  was  then  and  how  happy  we  were  in  it,  our 
somber  visions  locked  safely  in  behind  our  studio  door. 

For  Delalleau,  who  was  so  gay,  also  painted  gloomy 
pictures. 

Notwithstanding  his  rage  for  politics,  he  astonished 
us  by  the  rapid  progress  he  made.  He  was  now  engaged 
on  a  picture  which  The'ophile  Gautier,  in  the  next  Salon, 
praised  highly,  *'  A  Convoy  of  Hungarian  Prisoners" 
crossing  the  steppes  under  the  conduct  of  some  Austrian 
soldiers. 

It  showed  deep  feeling,  some  originality,  and  a  true 
dramatic  sense.  I  do  not  know  where  this  picture,  his 
first  and  best  one,  now  is. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  we  began  to  give  our  atten- 
tion to  painting  the  figure  in  the  open  air. 


208  THE    LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

Yes,  it  was  in  the  hard  and  cold  light  of  this  gloomy 
studio  that  we  dreamed  of  the  dazzling  splendors  of 
diffused  light. 

The  germ  of  this  idea  was  due  to  a  new  acquaint- 
ance who  had  lately  become  an  habitual  visitor  to  our 
studio — Eugene  Glirck. 

I  had  become  acquainted  with  him  at  the  restaurant 
where  I  dined  ;  he  always  sat  at  the  same  table,  one 
near  mine,  and  one  day  we  entered  into  conversation,  ^ 
propos  of  a  street  organ  which  was  playing  the  air  of 
Gastibelza  outside  the  door  in  so  dismal  a  tremolo  that 
I  fancied  I  could  see  the  quivering  lips  of  Ribera's  won- 
derful "  St.  Bartholomew  "  flayed  alive,  which  was  then 
in  our  Spanish  gallery,  where  there  were  also  many  other 
remarkable  paintings  of  which  our  younger  artists  have 
no  knowledge. 

I  could  not  help  telling  my  neighbor  of  this  absurd 
fancy,  in  which  he  recognized  the  painter.  He  acknowl- 
edged that  he  was  a  painter  himself,  and  with  that  abso- 
lute trustfulness  which  is  the  charm  of  youth,  we  soon 
became  friends. 

He  had  had  in  the  Exhibition,  also  in  the  Orangery, 
and  facing  "Want  and  Despair,"  a  little  picture,  "  A 
Roman  Battle,"  in  the  style  of  Guignet.  We  must  have 
seen  each  other,  therefore,  since,  unluckily,  we  had  both 
watched  our  pictures  there. 

He  often  came  to  our  studio. 

His  thoughts  were  greatly  occupied  by  certain  grand 
effects  of  local  color  without  shade,  which  he  had  ob- 
served in  some  old  tapesteries,  in  certain  specimens  of 
Gothic  art,  and  even  in  the  works  of  Paul  Veronese. 

He  had  observed',  too,  that  objects  in  the  street  are 
also  lighted  in  this  broad,  clear,  simple  manner,  and  he 
had  remarked,  besides,  how  favorable  this  lighting,  that 
no  vexatious  accident  can  interfere  with,  is  to  the  sum 


THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 


209 


of  the  values,  and  also  what  style  and  charm  the  charac- 
ter of  the  face  receives  from  this  unity. 

And  Gluck  was  the  first  to  call  this  outdoor  paint- 
ing. 


LXVIII. 

I  DINED  at  the  restaurant  of  a  wine  merchant  named 
Comeau.  This  was  a  house  that  stood  alone,  in  the 
middle  of  the  Place  St.-Germain-des-Pres,  facing  the 
church. 

Baudry  lived  on  the  sixth  floor  of  this  house  exposed 
to  all  the  winds  of  heaven. 

In  front  of  it  stood  a  very  tall  pole,  which  towered 
above  the  roofs  of  the  neighboring  houses,  and  which 
served  as  a  beacon  and  point  of  observation  for  the 
opening  of  the  Rue  Bonaparte,  a  work  which  had  just 
begun. 

A  new-comer  in  Drolling's  studio  had  been  made  be- 
lieve that  this  pole  had  been  erected  in  Baudry's  honor, 
because  he  had  taken  the  second  Prix  de  Rome. 

I  went  every  day,  then,  to  Comeau's,  to  spend  there 
the  eighteen  or  twenty  sous  which  my  dinner  usually 
cost  me. 

The  summer  of  1849  was  a  magnificent  one,  and  it 
was  under  the  light  of  a  brilliant  and  unclouded  sun 
that  I  saw  the  long  line  of  hearses,  constantly  swelled 
by  fresh  victims  to  the  terrible  scourge,  filing  through 
the  streets. 

Sometimes  there  were  not  hearses  enough  to  supply 
the  demand,  and  carts  were  employed  in  the  lugubrious 
service  of  carrying  the  dead. 

In  the  end  people  grew  accustomed  to  this,  and 
ceased  to  take  any  notice  of  it.  But  an  indefinable 

14 


2io  THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 

gloom  filled  the  soul,  and  seemed  to  darken  the  rays  of 
the  sun,  as  if  they  came  through  a  black  crape  veil. 
The  recollection  of  this  time  comes  back  to  me  like  a 
time  of  eclipse,  where  I  see  the  red  faces  of  the  under- 
taker's men,  unfailingly  gay,  flash  out  laughing. 

In  the  streets  one  felt,  as  on  a  battle-field,  always  in 
danger  of  being  struck  down  without  warning,  as  if  there 
were  more  safety  to  be  found  within  the  walls  of  a  house. 

On  one  of  those  days,  as  I  was  walking  at  noon  to 
the  restaurant,  my  eyes  fixed  absently  on  Baudry's  pole, 
my  thoughts  lost  in  revery,  I  suddenly  cried  "  Louis !  " 
and  we  rushed  into  each  other's  arms. 

Louis,  whom  I  had  thought  at  Courrieres,  was  there 
before  me  in  the  Place  St.-Germain-des-Pres  !  It 
was  indeed  his  sunny  blonde  head.  (Those  who  re- 
member him  at  the  age  of  twenty  know  that  he  resembled 
the  Apollo  in  the  "  Olympus  "  of  Rubens.)  It  was  he. 

I  took  him  with  me  into  Comeau's,  praising  the  ex- 
cellence of  the  haricot  to  be  had  there,  and  we  sat  down 
to  dine. 

My  brother  said  he  thought  this  famous  ragout  too 
greasy,  and  ate  nothing  but  an  artichoke  a  la  vinaigrette. 
In  reality,  the  pleasure  of  our  meeting  had  taken  away 
his  appetite. 

As  for  me,  I  swallowed,  without  knowing  what  I  was 
eating,  artichoke  and  haricot  together,  talking  all  the 
time  with  my  mouth  full,  asking  and  answering  ques- 
tions. 

The  cholera  had  been  appalling  down  there  too — I 
had  not  heard  it.  Now  it  was  nearly  over;  hardly  any 
serious  cases.  The  sweating-sickness — oh,  yes  !  plenty 
of  cases  of  that — such  a  one  was  dead,  and  such  another. 
And  such  another.  Some  one  else  had  been  so  much 
afraid  that  he  had  remained  the  whole  time  in  bed,  al- 
though he  was  not  sick.  My  uncle  had  been  terribly 


THE  LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST.  211 

distressed  at  so  much  misery;  they  had  gone  together 
every  day  to  see  that  the  sick  wanted  for  nothing — to 
encourage  them — to  restore  their  confidence — to  prevent 
people  flying  from  the  place.  In  the  village  everything 
is  noticed  ;  every  one  knows  every  one. 

Then,  having  satisfied  our  curiosity,  having  talked 
about  Emile,  our  dear  little  pioupiou,  then  in  garrison  at 
Romans,  who  had  just  been  made  a  corporal,  we  gave 
ourselves  up  to  the  pleasure  of  being  together,  letting 
our  thoughts  wander  where  they  would. 

We  went  for  a  walk  in  the  streets,  turning  our  steps 
wherever  chance  directed,  talking  ceaselessly,  without 
stopping  to  think  whether  our  words  were  silly  or  not. 
We  called  this  "  talking  our  little  nonsense."  Indeed, 
it  was  nonsense  without  head  or  tail.  We  rattled  on 
in  this  way,  as  the  birds  twitter  because  they  must  give 
utterance  to  their  happiness  in  some  form,  nothing 
more.  But  as  this  happiness  has  something  of  delirium 
in  it,  it  would  be  illogical  to  follow  the  rules  of  common 
sense  in  giving  expression  to  it. 

It  was,  on  a  small  scale,  the  fine  disorder  of  the  ode, 
including  every  measure,  mudng/tf&u  and  French,  affect- 
ed conceits  and  foolish  solemn  phrases,  heroic  declama- 
tions, pious  and  earnest  aspirations,  puns  in  prose  and 
verse,  scraps  of  crazy  sentences,  all  of  which,  nonsensi- 
cal or  droll,  expressed  the  joy  of  having  near  one  a  be- 
loved being,  of  knowing  that  all  that  either  possesses 
belongs  to  the  other  also,  that  neither  has  a  feeling 
which  does  not  find  an  echo  in  the  other's  heart,  of  be- 
ing conscious,  in  short,  that  the  hearts  of  both  are  light- 
ened by  this  exchange  of  tenderness ;  and  is  it  not  this 
that  makes  the  birds  twitter  ? 

And  meantime,  what  of  the  cholera  ?  We  had  for- 
gotten all  about  it. 

Next  day  we  went  to   Meudon,  Paris   not  being  in 


212  THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

harmony  with  the  state  of  our  feelings.  We  found  this 
place  also  too  noisy  for  us. 

It  was  the/^-day  of  the  village. 

When  we  arrived  there  we  saw  a  cruel  thing.  Some 
peasants,  the  greater  number  of  them  under  the  influ- 
ence of  wine,  were  gathered  in  animated  groups  around 
a  goose  suspended  from  a  sort  of  osier  basket,  out  of 
which  hung  his  neck  and  head  like  the  mouth-piece  of 
a  clarionet.  One  of  the  rustics,  blindfolded  and  with  a 
sword  in  his  hand,  was  describing  circles  in  the  air  with 
his  arms,  and,  feeling  his  way  with  all  sorts  of  precau- 
tions, which  he  tried  to  make  as  comical  as  possible, 
was  advancing  toward  the  feathered  victim. 

When  he  thought  himself  near  the  desired  spot,  he 
gave  a  violent  blow. in  the  air  with  the  sword,  which 
made  him  stagger,  and  loud  bursts  of  laughter  followed. 

We  left  those  people  to  their  amusement,  and  took 
an  ascending  road  to  our  left,  walking  straight  on. 

The  ascent  was  a  little  steep,  and  the  sun  burned 
our  necks,  but  the  air  was  so  pure,  and  the  verdure  so 
fresh ! 

We  entered  a  wood. 

Soon  we  felt  the  pangs  of  hunger.  We  came  very 
opportunely  across  a  keeper's  lodge,  which  on/t^-days 
was  transformed  into  a  restaurant  for  straggling  excur- 
sionists. We  espied  a  leafy  bower  with  benches  and  a 
worm-eaten  table  inside. 

Ah  !  how  pleasant  it  was  sitting  there  ! 

On  the  rising  ground  before  us  was  the  pretty  wood 
of  Meudon.  Our  chatter,  which  we  left  off  for  a  mo- 
ment to  take  breath,  began  again  with  more  animation 
than  ever,  this  time  accompanied  by  real  birds'  notes. 

They  served  us,  under  the  name  of  veal  au  petit pois, 
the  best  dish  I  have  ever  eaten  in  my  life. 

And  not  you,  Romance  Conti,  nor  you,  Vannes  or 


THE  LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

Chambertin,  once  the  pride  of  the  paternal  cellar,  could 
equal  the  thin  wine  we  drank  here. 

We  drank  a  little  too  much  of  it. 

After  the  coffee  and  a  good  pipe,  we  plunged  into 
the  wood,  where  brilliant  bursts  of  sunshine  streamed 
through  the  branches  of  the  trees,  lighting  up  a  little 
path,  capricious  as  the  bounds  of  a  goat.  What  an  in- 
tensity of  life  we  felt ! 

But  what  is  that  we  see  yonder — that  dark  pink  and 
blue  object  ?  We  draw  near.  Oh,  ravishing  sight ! 

On  a  knoll  a  young  girl  lay  sleeping,  like  a  rustic 
Antiope.  She  lay  there,  looking  cool  under  the  furtive 
caresses  of  the  sun,  with  closed  eyes  and  parted  lips, 
while  the  sunlight,  sifting  through  the  waving  branches 
of  an  oak,  flickered  on  her  face.  The  play  of  the  light 
and  shade  gave  an  appearance  of  motion  to  her  immov- 
able form.  A  thousand  pearly  tints  trembled  on  the 
sun-lighted  face  where  the  effulgence  of  the  azure  sky 
blended  with  the  golden  and  rosy  gleams  cast  by  the 
glowing  herbage. 

Less  bold  than  the  satyrs  of  Coreggio  or  Titian,  we 
admired  her  from  a  respectful  distance. 

Then  with  dazzled  eyes  we  took  the  road  leading  to 
Meudon  and  continued  our  chatter. 

We  sat  down  by  the  wayside,  near  the  station.  Night 
was  approaching. 

The  setting  sun  shot  his  fiery  arrows,  spreading  out 
like  a  fan,  through  the  branches  of  the  acacias.  Laden 
with  perfume,  the  peaceful  breath  of  sleeping  Nature 
came  to  us  through  the  blossom-laden  boughs. 


214  THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 


LXIX. 

THE  Exhibition  of  1851  was  held  in  the  Palais- Royal, 
in  the  court-yard  of  which  a  large  wooden  building  had 
been  erected. 

My  picture  was  hung  in  the  Square  Hall,  so  high 
that  it  could  scarcely  be  seen. 

Courbet,  who  had  not  been  much  noticed  at  the  pre- 
ceding Salon,  attracted  a  great  deal  of  attention  on  this 
occasion  with  his  "  Interment  at  Ornans." 

The  singular  power  manifested  in  this  half-tragic, 
half-grotesque  picture,  gave  rise  to  the  liveliest  discus- 
sions. It  was  bitterly  criticised ;  the  red  faces  of  the 
beadles  especially  were  almost  universally  found  fault 
with.  But  it  was  impossible  to  deny  that  here  was  a 
painter  who  showed,  along  with  his  contempt  for  public 
opinion,  a  rare  force  of  expression.  This  picture  seemed 
to  breathe  a  funereal  horror  that  was  Shakespearian  in 
its  power. 

At  this  same  Exhibition  appeared  "  The  Sower,"  of 
Millet,  his  first  effort  in  the  rural  genre.  This  picture, 
which  was  hung  too  high,  was  scarcely  noticed  by  the 
general  public,  but  the  connoisseurs  in  art  were  much 
struck  by  it.  They  found  in  it  a  fullness  of  action  and 
a  broadness  of  conception,  which  made  it  stand  out  in 
bold  relief  from  the  pictures  around  it.  When  I  say 
rural  genre,  however,  in  speaking  of  this  composition,  I 
do  not  mean  to  say  that  we  have  here  a  page  from  nature  ; 
it  is  a  sort  of  allegorical  representation  of  agriculture. 
Millet  has  seen  this  peasant  through  the  medium  of  his 
epic  visions,  still  influenced  by  his  recollections  of  the 
classic  school.  The  sower  has,  himself,  the  conscious- 
ness of  the  majesty  of  his  attitude  ;  he  is  declamatory. 

The  effect  of  the  picture  is  black.    Millet  has  not  yet 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST.  215 

found  the  mysterious  charm,  acquired  later  on  in  his  si- 
lent walks  through  the  fields,  which  will  bestow  a  beauty 
even  on  ugliness. 


LXX. 

AFTER  the  Exhibition  I  went  again  to  Ghent,  for  the 
purpose  of  painting  a  picture  for  the  church  of  Cour- 
rieres — a  "  Baptism  of  Christ." 

I  had  longed  to  find  myself  again  in  the  midst  of 
the  pleasant  Flemish  life,  of  which  I  cherished  so  many 
tender  recollections. 

I  found  De  Vigne  painting  a  "  Marriage  in  the  Mid- 
dle Ages,"  and  De  Winne  who,  like  ourselves,  had 
taken  up  subjects  of  a  not  very  amusing  nature,  work- 
ing at  a  "  Monk  Consoling  a  Dying  Woman." 

I  exhibited  my  picture  '"  Hunger  "  at  a  small  exhi- 
bition, and  I  must  say  that  it  produced  so  powerful  an 
impression  on  some  pretty  women  who  were  looking  at 
it  as  to  draw  tears  from  them,  a  thing  which  touched  me 
greatly. 

I  was  happy  to  find  myself  once  more  among  my 
excellent  friends,  and  I  set  to  work  on  my  picture  with 
confidence.  If  I  had  thought  it  an  easy  task,  I  soon 
found  myself  greatly  mistaken.  I  sought  in  vain  after 
the  harmony  I  had  dreamed  of,  and  found  it  impossible 
to  fix  on  canvas  the  face  which,  in  my  imagination,  was 
so  beautiful.  I  began  it  all  over  again  twenty  times.  I 
becam'e  disheartened. 

Was  this  solely  because  of  my  humiliating  failure,  or 
was  there  some  other  cause  for  it  ?  A  moral  disquietude 
took  possession  of  me. 

I  had  dark  fits  of  spleen,  during  which  I  wandered 
about  alone.  I  chose  for  these  solitary  walks  the  de- 


2i6  THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

serted  streets  of  the  suburbs.  I  think  the  weather  had 
something  to  do  with  my  sadness,  for  I  have  a  recollec- 
tion of  a  leaden  sun,  and  a  high  wind  whirling  about 
clouds  of  dust  that  blinded  the  eyes.  I  have  since  ex- 
perienced weather  as  disagreeable,  however,  without 
feeling  the  same  discomfort. 

At  about  eleven  o'clock,  before  dinner,  I  would 
leave  the  studio  and  go  down  to  the  parlor,  where  my 
little  favorite  was  practicing  her  pieces  for  the  conserv- 
atory, with  abrupt  movements  of  the  head  at  the  difficult 
passages,  the  elbows  sticking  out  a  little,  the  shoulder- 
blades  slightly  projecting. 

She  was  now  fourteen,  but  she  still  wore  short  dress- 
es. Age  of  bewitching  awkwardness,  when  the  rounded 
curves  of  the  child  are  lengthening  out  into  the  sharp 
angles  of  growing  girlhood  ! 

Her  dark  eyes,  full  of  a  serious  candor,  but  with 
something  mysterious  in  their  depths,  no  longer  sent 
forth  those  flashes  of  gentle  gayety  which  had  so  often 
rejoiced  my  heart  in  the  long  past  days  when  she  would 
clasp  her  little  arms  around  my  neck  as  I  danced  her  on 
my  knees. 

I  took  an  unflagging  interest  in  her  studies,  and  be- 
sieged her  with  my  counsels.  My  earnestness  frightened 
her ;  she  had  responded  to  it  by  marks  of  impatience 
that  I  had  misinterpreted,  taking  them  for  aversion.  I 
had  thereupon  scolded  the  little  ingrate.  She  had  melted 
into  tears,  but  her  attitude  had  not  changed. 

But  after  all,  what  rights  had  I  over  her? 

Why  was  I  displeased  when  I  saw  that  she  was  more 
familiar  with  De  Winne,  whom  she  called  simply 
"Winne,"  than  with  me  whom  she  called  "  Monsieur 
Jules "  ?  She  had  an  unquestionable  right  to  prefer 
him  to  me.  And  then  what  reason  had  I  to  suppose 
that  she  hated  me? 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST.  217 

In  a  trip  that  we  had  just  made,  accompanied  by  her 
mother,  to  Antwerp,  had  she  not  been  gay  and  playful 
with  me  ? 

And  was  it  not  very  disagreeable  of  me  to  be  forever 
preaching  to  her  ? 

And  when  I  brought  her  home  flowers,  or  other 
trifles,  from  my  Sunday  walks,  she  accepted  them  amia- 
bly. 

One  day  I  went  to  the  conservatory  to  hear  her  play; 
she  played  well,  and,  in  my  haste  to  congratulate  her,  I 
went  to  the  staircase  landing  to  meet  her. 

She  soon  made  her  appearance,  accompanied  by  her 
little  friends.  I  advanced  toward  her,  but  seeing  me 
thus  unexpectedly,  she  turned  her  head  aside,  and 
walked  on  in  silence,  looking  pale  and  confused. 

"  Decidedly,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  that  girl  has  no 
heart !  " 

A  few  days  later,  however,  I  saw  her  returning  from 
the  school  after  the  distribution  of  the  prizes.  She  had 
seven  or  eight  wreaths  in  her  hands,  and  as  many  more 
handsome  gilt  books  ;  and,  far  from  being  gay,  she  was 
weeping  bitterly.  She  had  just  bade  farewell  to  her 
teachers,  whom  she  was  leaving  forever.  She  had  a 
heart  for  others,  then  !  And  when  I  left  Ghent  I  took 
with  me  a  counter-drawing,  taken  secretly  from  a  por- 
trait I  had  made  of  her  charming  face. 

My  picture  had  made  scarcely  any  progress  during 
all  this  time — this  impracticable  head  of  Christ  that  I  was 
always  beginning  over  again  !  Delalleau,  whom  I  neg- 
lected, overwhelmed  me  with  reproaches  in  letters  eight 
pages  long,  in  which  he  vaunted  his  own  valor,  and  in 
which  such  phrases  as  the  following  were  thrown  at  me : 
"Yesterday  I  went  to  Versailles,  and  I  thought  of  you 
as  I  looked  at  the  leaden  turtles,  which  are  good  for 
nothing  but  to  serve  as  water-spouts." 


2i8  THE  LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 

At  last  I  departed,  leaving  my  unfinished  "  Baptism 
of  Christ  "  and  the  dream,  full  of  mysterious  uncertain- 
ties, that  haunted  me  for  the  following  year. 


LXXI. 

IT  was  now  1852.  De  Winne,  having  received  a 
small  pension  from  the  Government,  had  corne  to  Paris 
to  pay  me  a  visit. 

We  occupied  together  a  rather  large  apartment,  for- 
merly used  as  a  bookseller's  shop,  at  No.  85  Boule- 
vard de  Montparnasse.  We  divided  it,  by  means  of  a 
large  curtain  of  lutestring,  into  a  studio  and  a  bedroom. 
Two  small  iron  bedsteads,  costing  eight  francs,  and  a 
few  tabourets  and  easels  comprised  all  the  furniture. 
Gluck  shared  the  studio  with  us.  Our  windows  opened 
on  a  little  garden  planted  with  trees  where  (and  this 
will  serve  to  give  some  idea  of  its  solitude)  we  one  day 
caught  a  snake. 

The  whole  cost  us  two  hundred  francs  a  year.  We 
managed  ourselves  our  housekeeping,  disorderly  enough, 
as  may  be  imagined.  Our  abode  was  at  once  humble 
and  gay.  A  house  of  the  time  of  Louis  XVI,  with  a 
pediment,  of  a  single  story,  verdure  in  the  court,  verdure 
in  the  street. 

We  soon  found  congenial  companions  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. Brion,  the  family  of  Auguste  Fauvel,  Tabar, 
Travies,  Dock,  Bartholdi,  Schutzemberger,  and  later, 
Nazon,  Ge*r6me,  and  Toulmouche.  We  worked  hard, 
and  our  four  walls  were  soon  covered  with  verdant 
sketches.  No  more  lugubrious  subjects  ! 

For  we  were  digging  away  at  outdoor  painting. 

The  station  of  Montparnasse  was  close  at  hand.     In 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST.  2IQ 

the  morning  we  set  out  for  Clamart,  Meudon,  or  Chaville, 
carrying  our  panels,  our  boxes,  and  our  umbrellas,  joy- 
ous and  bold,  as  if  we  were  going  to  conquer  the  world. 
They  might  have  talked  to  us  in  vain  of  the  studio  and 
the  school.  From  the  outside  of  our  coach  we  saw  the 
houses  and  the  monuments  of  Paris  fly  past,  and  it  was 
not  unwittily  that  I  compared  the  small,  smooth  dome 
of  the  observatory  to  the  bald  head  of  a  member  of  the 
Institute.  Each  day  Nature  revealed  new  secrets  to  us, 
and  our  eyes,  eager  to  search  into  her  mysteries,  found 
ever  new  delights. 

How  many  harmonies,  long  vaguely  dreamed  of,  did 
our  work  suddenly  reveal  to  us ! 

There  were  slopes  of  green  and  pink  heather,  land- 
slips of  red  earth,  lighted  by  the  beams  of  the  setting 
sun,  while  from  dazzling  breaks  in  the  sky  showers  of 
light  poured  into  the  dark  solitude  of  the  underwood 
covered  with  dead  leaves,  giving  it  the  dappled  appear- 
ance of  a  deer-skin.  There  'were,  too,  interminable 
white  walls,  on  which  the  lights  and  shadows  danced 
capriciously,  running  zigzag  along  the  forest  through 
pleasant  vegetation,  their  base  hidden  among  the  thick 
leaves  of  the  nettles,  and,  shaded  by  leafy  oaks,  were 
sunny  meadows  starred  with  yellow  and  blue  flowers, 
where  at  times  a  donkey  grazed  peacefully,  while  his 
cart,  its  shafts  raised  in  the  air,  rested  by  the  roadside, 
and  finally,  far  away  in  the  blue  distance,  like  an  ocean 
crowded  with  motionless  vessels,  were  the  broad  zones, 
pierced  with  a  thousand  gleaming  points,  of  the  great 
city. 

Enchanting  suburbs  of  Paris,  we  thought  there  was 
nothing  in  the  world  to  equal  you  !  Ah  !  if  my  poor 
Courrieres  had  only  contained  a  quarter  of  your  mar- 
vels ! 

It  was  still  the  suburbs,  but  with  a  mixture  of  rus- 


22O  THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 

ticity,  that  we  found  at  St.  Nom  la  Breteche,  where  we 
spent  some  time,  and  where  I  conceived  my  first  "  Return 
of  the  Harvesters."  Delalleau  came  to  join  us  here. 
These  where  the  last  hours  that  we  were  to  spend  in 
community.  The  difference  in  our  characters,  growing 
more  marked  every  day,  rendered  life  in  common  diffi- 
cult. I  saw  him  again  occasionally  at  the  exhibitions, 
in  which  he  took  part  several  times,  but  without  ever 
again  meeting  the  semi-success  obtained  by  his  "  Hun- 
garians." He  had  the  baffled  expression  characteristic 
of  men  who  have  been  disappointed  in  their  ambitions. 
He  had  been  so  confident  of  success  !  He  could  never 
recover  from  the  painful  surprise  with  which  he  found 
he  had  been  left  behind  on  the  road.  This  is  what  one 
of  our  comrades,  the  now  celebrated  Vandremer,  said  to 
me,  not  long  since. 

Delalleau  made  an  imprudent  marriage  and  retired 
to  a  little  village  of  Artois,  named  Lumbres.  He  died 
there  in  obscurity,  in  1865,  at  the  age  of  thirty-nine, 
after  a  long  and  painful  illness,  of  a  malady  induced 
perhaps,  by  secret  chagrins. 

Poor  friend  !  He  sleeps  there  under  the  shadow  of 
a  weeping  ash,  and  so  utterly  forgotten  that  the  mildew 
of  the  lichens  corroding  the  stone  has  effaced  his  name. 
This  was  the  end  of  so  many  dreams  of  fame ! 


LXXII. 

UNHAPPILY  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  execute  my 
picture  "The  Return  of  the  Harvesters"  in  the  country 
with  real  peasants  for  models.  I  had  no  study  except 
at  Paris.  I  was  obliged  to  be  satisfied,  therefore,  with 
professional  models. 


THE    LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST.  22I 

Besides,  I  could  stay  no  longer  in  the  inn  of  P1re  la 
Joie  at  La  Breteche,  for  the  exclusive  diet  of  pork,  to 
which  we  had  been  confined  for  the  last  six  weeks,  and 
which  we  had  at  every  meal  and  under  every  form,  had 
kindled  a  veritable  fire  in  my  digestive  apparatus.  I 
was  for  a  long  time  ill  from  a  chronic  inflammation,  aug- 
mented by  the  anxieties  of  a  task  beyond  my  strength 
and  the  absolute  neglect  of  hygienic  rules.  The  first 
half  of  the  winter  was  exceedingly  rainy,  and  I  remem- 
ber that  I  would  arrive  at  our  little  cook-shop  in  the 
Barrier  Du  Main  with  my  shoes  running  water. 

Notwithstanding  all  this,  I  painted  away  desperately 
at  my  picture,  now  wildly  hopeful  of  success,  now  utterly 
discouraged. 

Completely  exhausted,  I  was  obliged  at  last  to  inter- 
rupt my  work  and  go  to  Courrieres  to  recuperate.  I 
came  back  a  month  before  the  time  for  sending  my 
picture  to  the  Salon,  with  somewhat  restored  health.  I 
resumed  my  task  with  fresh  ardor,  succeeded  by  the  same 
alternations  of  satisfaction  and  disgust.  Artists  know 
how  enervating  this  is. 

The  picture  is  finished.  My  comrades  come  to  see  it. 
Naturally,  they  think  it  superb.  Tabar  himself,  the  best 
artist  among  my  friends,  admires  it  warmly.  "  I  see  your 
picture  already  in  a  corner  of  the  *  Salon  of  Honor.' " 
De  Winne,  who  thought  my  picture  a  masterpiece,  said  to 
me  :  "  At  times  its  warm  sunset  lights  seemed  to  me, 
too,  real  light.  Courage  !  Let  us  hope  for  a  success." 

We  hurry  to  the  Salon. 

Yes,  I  may  hope  for  a  good  place.  And  then,  the 
excellent  Merle,  the  director  of  the  orchestra  at  the 
Opera  Comique,  a  native  of  Ghent  and  a  compatriot  of 
De  Winne,  had  brought  one  of  the  inspectors  who  had 
charge  of  the  hanging  to  see  my  picture,  and  he  had 
praised  it  highly. 


UNIVERSITY 


222  THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

The  exhibition  was  held  in  the  Faubourg  Poisson- 
niere. 

We  reach  the  hall.  I  look  for  my  picture.  Impossi- 
ble to  find  it.  I  find  my  inspector  engaged  in  a  violent 
dispute  with  Philippe  Rousseau.  This  is  not  the  time 
to  choose  to  speak  to  him. 

Artists,  anxious  as  myself,  are  running  hither  and 
thither. 

Animated  groups  are  gathered  before  "  The  Young 
Village  Girls  "  and  "  The  Bather  "  of  Courbet  ("  Look  at 
the  bather  !  What  a  figure  !  ")  ;  before  Hamon's  "  My 
Lost  Sister,"  "The  Malaria"  of  Hebert,  "The  Skaters" 
of  my  friend  Brion  ("  Bravo,  Brion  !  "),  "  The  Peasants  " 
of  Millet  ("  Very  peculiar,  that  Millet  "). 

But  where  is  my  "  Harvesters  "  ?  De  Winne  has 
found  his  picture — "  Ruth  and  Naomi  "  ("  Not  bad,  a 
little  pale"). 

Rousseau  has  released  my  inspector.  I  approach 
the  latter.  He  is  not  in  a  good  humor. 

"  My  faith,"  he  says,  "  I  have  done  all  I  could  ;  but 
you  know  there  are  so  many  protfgts  !  " 

And  he  points  out  to  me  my  poor  "  Harvesters," 
hung  under  the  ceiling.  Impossible  to  recognize  in  this 
melancholy  group,  looking  still  more  melancholy  hang- 
ing up  there,  the  gay  peasants  I  had  pictured  to  myself 
with  that  sunset  flush  that  now  seems  to  me  a  flush  of 
shame. 

I  think  I  was  scarcely  more  good-tempered  than 
Philippe  Rousseau,  for  my  inspector  gets  rid  of  me  in  a 
sufficiently  brutal  fashion. 

"  Very  well !  "  I  say.  "  I  know  whom  I  shall  appeal 
to." 

And  I  went  to  the  Champs  Elysees  to  the  house  of 
the  Count  de  Morny,  to  whom  our  deputy  had  recom- 
mended me. 


THE   LIFE  OF   AN    ARTIST. 


223 


"  Can  I  see  M.  de  Morny  ?  "  I  asked  the  concierge. 

"  Have  you  a  card  of  audience  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Then,  monsieur,  the  count  will  not  receive  you  ! " 

I  was  horribly  disappointed.  If  any  one  had  just 
then  been  able  to  prove  to  me  that  my  picture  was  bad, 
I  should  have  at  once  grown  calm.  But  I  had  seen  so 
many  daubs  paraded  on  the  line  !  Oh,  what  injustice ! 
Then  base  thoughts  entered  my  mind.  Returning  home 
I  stopped  at  the  house  of  a  man  whom  I  occasionally 
met,  but  for  whom  I  did  not  entertain  any  great  sym- 
pathy. He  was  insincere.  I  recounted  my  discomfiture 
to  him. 

"  Ah,  you  do  not  know  the  Belgians,"  he  said  to  me 
with  a  chuckle.  "  Merle*  and  De  Winne  have  played  you 
this  trick,  my  dear  fellow.  I  know  them,  these  Bel- 
gians !  " 

And  in  his  bad  French — he  was  a  Fleming — he 
added  : 

"  I  can  see  peeping  out  of  them  the  cloven  foot !  " 

I  ought  at  once  to  have  given  this  odious  person  his 
answer.  But  no  !  I  had  hell  in  my  heart,  and  I  began  to 
suspect  the  good,  the  generous  De  Winne,  whom,  until 
then,  I  had  regarded  as  a  brother  !  I  had  just  reached 
home,  my  mind  agitated  by  these  vile  suspicions,  when 
this  excellent  friend  came  in. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself  since 
morning? "  he  said  to  me. 

I  did  not  answer. 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter  with  you,"  he  said,  with 
an  anxious  expression  in  his  eyes. 

"  Forgive  me,  LieVin  !  "  I  cried,  "  I  have  done  you  an 
injustice !  " 

And  I  threw  myself  into  his  arms,  and  begged  his 
pardon  with  tears  in  my  eyes. 


224  THE   LIFE   OF  AN 


LXXIII. 

IN  this  Salon  of  1853  there  was  an  admirable  picture 
of  Daubigny,  representing  the  margin  of  a  cool,  clear 
pond. 

There  was  also  a  little  landscape  of  Fran9ais,  full  of 
poetic  feeling — an  Italian  meadow  with  a  straight  ditch 
and  a  black  cow  beside  it.  I  stood  for  a  long  time, 
plunged  in  a  profound  reverie,  before  this  gem.  The 
time  of  day  was  so  well  expressed  in  it  that,  as  it  was 
the  hour  at  which  I  was  accustomed  to  breakfast,  I  felt 
(and  this  is  literally  true)  a  sensation  of  hunger  take 
possession  of  me,  while  I  refreshed  my  eyes  with  the 
sight  of  this  beautiful  still  water,  lighted  by  the  sun 
shining  through  the  reeds. 

Millet  made  his  appearance  for  the  first  time  with 
real  peasants,  painted  from  nature,  and  not  from  the 
imagination,  like  the  too  solemn  "  Sower." 

His  picture  represented  a  group  of  peasants  in  the 
field,  whose  dinner  has  just  been  brought  to  them.  I 
have  never  again  seen  this  picture,  which  was  not  in- 
cluded in  the  exhibition  of  the  works  of  this  painter. 

It  was  wonderful.  It  produced  a  singular  impression 
upon  me. 

This  painting,  baked  in  the  sun,  so  to  say,  austere 
and  earthy,  expressed  with  marvelous  effect  the  over- 
powering heat  that  burns  the  fields  in  the  dog-days,  a 
dull  glow  where  breathe,  stifle,  and  sweat  horny-handed 
beings  with  knotty  joints,  thick  lips,  eyes  vaguely  defined 
in  their  sockets,  outlines  as  simple  as  those  of  Egyptian 
art,  and  wearing  clothes  like  sheaths,  with  baggy  elbows 
and  knees  —  beings  of  a  stupid  and  savagely  solemn 
aspect. 

His  enemies  saw  in  it  the  glorification  of  stupidity. 


THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 


225 


It  was  indeed  a  singular  picture,  at  first  view.  The  gray 
tone  of  the  wheat  seemed  to  diffuse  itself  through  the 
red  atmosphere  that,  growing  thicker  in  the  distance, 
enveloped  everything  in  its  monochromatic  waves,  under 
the  livid  light  of  the  leaden  sky. 

Was  it  sublime,  or  was  it  horrible  ?  The  public  were 
startled  by  it,  and  waited,  as  usual,  for  the  recognized 
critics  to  give  the  watchword.  It  was  true  they  were 
not  charmed  by  the  picture,  but  they  did  not  give  way 
to  the  hilarity  they  had  not  hesitated  to  express  before 
some  recent  disgraceful  specimens  of  art.  They  felt 
the  influence  of  a  power,  they  felt  themselves  in  the 
presence  of  a  great  creation,  of  a  strange  vision  of  an 
almost  prehistoric  character. 

This  feeling  of  absolute  oneness  with  the  soil  is  not 
at  all  that  of  our  peasants  of  the  north,  but  it  is  occa- 
sionally to  be  met  with  among  those  of  La  Beauce. 

Millet  has  since  given  us  many  works  of  a  higher 
style  of  art,  in  which  he  attains  character  and  sentiment 
even  with  ugliness.  Every  one  knows  them.  He  has 
gradually  added  to  his  pictures  an  element  wanting  in 
them  in  the  beginning — depth  of  atmosphere. 

With  a  plow  standing  in  a  rugged  field  wbere  a  few 
slender  thistles  are  growing,  two  or  three  tones  and  an 
execution  awkward  and  woolly,  he  can  stir  the  depths 
of  the  soul  and  interpret  the  infinite. 

A  solitary,  at  times  a  sublime  genius,  he  has  made  of 
a  sheepfold  lighted  by  the  rays  of  the  rising  Moon,  mys- 
terious as  the  eternal  problem  she  presents,  a  little  pict- 
ure life-like  and  pure  as  a  work  of  Phidias,  unfathom- 
able as  a  Rembrandt,  but  let  others  beware  how  they 
imitate  it ! 

Because  Millet  has  created  masterpieces,  depicting 
man  degraded  by  poverty  even  to  the  effacement  of 
his  individuality,  we  have  not  therefore  the  right  to 
15 


226  THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

deny  the  exalted,  the  divine  beauty  of  these  master- 
pieces. 

The  wretched  beings  depicted  by  Millet  touch  us 
profoundly  because  he  loved  them  profoundly,  and  be- 
cause he  has  raised  them  to  the  higher  regions  inhabited 
by  his  genius,  which  has  invested  them  with  its  own 
dignity. 

But  they  have  nothing  in  common  with  vulgar  ugli- 
ness. Beauty  will  always  remain  the  highest  aim  of  art. 

Admiration  should  not  degenerate  into  fetichism,  and 
those  who  best  comprehend  the  genius  of  Millet,  will 
take  good  care  how  they  counsel  others  to  imitate  him. 

In  the  first  place,  is  it  in  truth  ugliness  that  Millet 
has  depicted  ?  Is  even  that  "  Man  with  the  Hoe "  so 
ugly,  who  awakens  our  sympathy  by  something  inex- 
pressibly mysterious  and  venerable  ? 

Many  of  his  works  prove  that  his  harsh  and  austere 
ideal  did  not  disdain  the  softened  expression  of  a  more 
serene  art. 

I  had  occasion  to  discuss  this  question  with  an  artist 
with  whom  chance  brought  me  into  contact  at  the  grand 
distribution  of  prizes  of  the*  International  Exposition  of 
1867. 

We  spoke  of  the  intolerance  of  certain  short-sighted 
art  critics  who  refuse  the  artist  the  right  to  give  himself 
up  to  the  inspirations  of  his  originality,  or  who,  judging 
every  work  of  art  by  one  common  standard,  would  like 
to  make  them  all  conform  to  their  favorite  type,  as  if  the 
types  of  nature  were  not  as  diversified  as  the  forms  of 
its  interpreter,  art.  "  Why  should  not  painters  have  the 
right  to  choose,"  said  this  artist,  "  one,  the  rough  potato, 
the  other,  the  morning-glory  that  twines  itself  among  the 
corn?"  He  went  on  to  develop  this  doctrine  in  a  clear- 
er and  more  forcible  manner  than  I  can  do  justice  to. 

This  artist  was  Francois  Millet. 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST. 


LXXIV. 


227 


I  QUITTED  Paris  in  a  state  of  extreme  depression 
caused  by  my  anxiety  regarding  my  picture  and  by  the 
state  of  my  health,  which  still  continued  bad. 

I  had  a  longing  for  rest  and  retirement. 

My  excellent  uncle  who,  with  Louis's  help,  provided 
for  the  wants  of  the  family,  had  built  a  little  studio  for 
me,  at  my  desire,  in  the  garden  of  the  brewery. 

I  returned  to  Courrieres,  then,  with  the  intention  of 
working  there. 

I  began  a  picture. 

A  study  made  at  Ghent  of  the  ruins  of  the  Abbey  of 
St.  Bavon  served  as  a  motive  for  a  "  Gypsy  Camp  "  that 
I  composed.  A  remnant  of  romanticism  still  remained 
with  me. 

I  worked  at  this  picture  in  a  somewhat  desultory 
manner,  my  attention  distracted  by  my  surroundings,  by 
the  beauty  of  rustic  nature,  that  began  to  awaken  in  my 
heart  a  thousand  recollections  of  my  childhood. 

All  the  earliest  sensations  of  this  dawn  of  existence 
were  renewed  in  me,  producing  a  delicious  intoxication 
of  the  senses  refreshed  by  the  free  pure  air. 

I  lived  again  in  memory  those  days  when  I  was 
awakened  by  the  song  of  the  birds  in  the  morning  when 
the  sunrise  lighted  up  the  room  with  a  rosy  flame  that 
grew  paler  and  paler  in  the  light  of  an  opal  sky,  while 
the  lowing  of  the  cows,  the  grating  of  the  barn  doors  on 
their  hinges,  and  the  crowing  of  the  cocks,  coming  soft- 
ened through  the  morning  mist,  announced  that  rural 
life  had  recommenced. 

Again  I  stretched  myself,  overpowered  by  a  sweet 
languor,  on  the  grass  in  the  cool  shade  where  the  very 
air  was  luminous,  where  the  profound  silence  of  noon 


228  THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

seemed  deeper  from  the  buzzing  of  the  insects  that  flew 
swiftly  past  unseen  in  the  midday  glare. 

Intoxicated  by  the  perfumes  and  the  harmonies  of 
nature,  I  gave  myself  up  to  reverie,  spending  all  my  time 
in  aimless  sauntering. 

Away  with  the  studio  with  its  livid  stream  of  light 
falling  from  overhead,  dull  and  leaden,  through  the  daz- 
zling glass  of  the  skylight,  on  those  poor  pallid  gypsies 
grouped  in  their  dark  ruin  around  the  witch  stirring 
their  broth  over  the  fire,  to  the  sound  of  her  muttered 
incantations.  I  have  not  the  courage  even  to  look  at 
them  again. 

I  had  sketched  them,  however,  with  some  spirit,  from 
little  clay  manikins  that  I  had  draped  in  secret,  show- 
ing them  to  no  one,  not  even  to  my  brothers,  who  had 
come  occasionally  to  look  through  the  keyhole  to  get  a 
glimpse  of  them.  The  day  on  which  I  had  opened 
the  studio  door  to  my  brothers,  however,  judging  the 
picture  sufficiently  far  advanced  to  show  to  them,  I 
was  disappointed  to  see  how  slight  an  impression  it 
produced. 

After  that  the  poor  gypsies  had  languished  on  the 
neglected  easel. 

But  the  most  delightful  moment  of  the  day  was  when 
in  the  evening,  after  supper,  we  smoked  our  pipes,  sit- 
ting in  our  chairs  tipped  back  against  the  wall,  and  let 
our  gaze  wander  out  into  the  road,  where  the  evening 
mists  were  rising,  wavering  in  the  still  heated  air. 

Everything  floated  in  a  white  transparent  mist,  out 
of  which  rose,  one  by  one,  the  sunburned  faces  of  the 
peasants  returning  slowly  from  the  fields,  walking  with 
heavy  step,  or  mounted  on  top  of  the  heaps  of  wheat  or 
the  bundles  of  grass  in  their  spring-carts. 

The  somber  landscape,  where  a  few  rays  of  light  still 
lingered,  stood  out  with  wonderful  effect  against  the 


THE  LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST.  229 

saffron  sky  irradiated  by  the  crimson  flames  fading  into 
darkness  behind  the  thatched  roofs  of  the  cottages. 

Tall  dark  peasant  girls  passed  by,  upon  whose  tan- 
gled locks  the  last  sunset  rays  lingered  like  an  aure- 
ole, their  shadowy  figures  outlined  in  light  In  the 
somber  and  mysterious  gloom  of  twilight,  they  seemed 
more  beautiful  and  more  dignified,  carrying  their  sickles, 
on  which  the  cold  light  of  the  upper  sky  gleamed  like 
moonlight. 

A  gentle  breeze  at  times  set  their  well-worn  garments 
in  motion. 

And  I  felt  my  heart  inelt  within  me  in  delightful 
transports  of  tender  emotion. 

Oh,  joy  !  Joy  of  the  eyes,  joy  of  the  soul !  Recon- 
ciliation of  the^ individual  with  himself  in  the  out-pour- 
ing of  universal  love  !  I  luxuriated  in  all  the  effluence 
of  life — of  nature — the  effervescent  life  of  plants  wet 
with  the  morning  dew,  the  waving  of  the  grain  in  the 
morning  breeze,  the  rapturous  song  of  trie  larks  herald- 
ing the  dawn ;  flaming  poppies,  modest  corn-flowers, 
mysterious  distances  fading  into  the  peaceful  sky,  odors 
that  waken  ecstatic  thrills,  intoxicating  emanations,  ra- 
diance of  the  free  pure  light,  splendor  of  rays  filtering 
through  the  trees  and  shooting  with  gold  the  gray  trans- 
parence of  the  sleeping  waters  !  And  the  intensity  of 
the  silence,  through  which  burst  from  time  to  time  sono- 
rous voices,  through  which  thrilled  rustling  murmurs. 
Oh,  joy  !  Joy  of  nature  !  joy  of  existence  !  Oh,  divine 
charm  !  Oh,  all-bountiful  God,  revealing  thyself  to  the 
heart  through  so  many  ineffable  blessings  ! 

Often  I  would  rise  before  the  first  rays  of  dawn  had 
wakened  the  dark  and  sleeping  fields. 

The  streets  were  silent.  Here  and  there,  however, 
some  house  would  show  signs  of  life ;  a  young  woman 
would  open  the  window,  her  eyes  heavy  with  sleep,  her 


230  THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 

hair  in  disorder,  half-dressed — delightful  glimpses  into 
other  lives.  Further  on  was  a  child  crying,  or  an  old 
woman  scolding. 

And  I  would  walk  far  into  the  fields,  where  the  ma- 
nure-heaps smoked  beside  the  herbage  wet  with  dew. 
The  bending  wheat  sprinkled  me  with  dew  as  I  walked 
along  the  narrow  foot-path.  Among  the  mists  the  wil- 
lows dropped  their  tears,  while  their  gray  tops  caught 
the  light  overhead.  Then  I  re-entered  the  village,  now 
all  bright  and  awake,  where  rose,  at  times,  with  the  blue 
wreaths  of  smoke  from  the  chimneys,  the  sweet,  monot- 
onous songs  of  the  young  embroiderers. 

I  returned  to  the  fields  to  look  at  the  gleaners. 
There  yonder,  defined  against  the  sky,  was  the  busy 
flock,  overtopped  by  the  guard. 

I  watched  them  as  they  worked,  now  running  in 
joyous  bands  carrying  sheaves  of  golden  grain  ;  now 
bending  ove'r  the  stubble,  closely  crowded  together. 

When  I  went  among  them  they  stopped  their  work  to 
look  at  me,  smiling  and  confused,  in  the  graceful  free- 
dom of  their  scanty  and  ill-assorted  garments. 

Ah  !  I  no  longer  regretted  either  Clamart  or  Meudon, 
and  I  loved  the  simple  beauty  of  my  native  place,  that 
offered  itself  to  me,  as  Ruth  offered  herself  to  Boaz. 
Yes,  I  became  one  with  you,  O  land  where  my  first 
joys  were  felt,  and  thou  didst  infuse  into  my  soul  the 
tender  beauty  of  thy  carnations,  the  majesty  of  thy 
wheat  fields,  and  the  mystery  of  thy  marsh,  with  its  mo- 
tionless waters  shaded  by  ashes  swarming  with  can- 
tharides.  O  land  of  my  childhood,  to  thee  have  I  given 
my  heart,  to  thee  have  I  dedicated  my  life  ! 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 


LXXV. 


231 


ONE  day  I  made  a  little  gleaner  pose  for  me,  standing 
on  a  flowery  bank  beside  a  field  of  wheat.  Her  bent 
face  was  in  shadow,  while  the  sunlight  fell  on  her  cap 
and  her  shoulders.  As  I  painted  her  I  felt  a  secret  joy. 

I  can  not  express  the  feeling  of  rapture  caused  me 
by  the  harmony  of  this  dark  face,  strongly  defined 
against  the  golden  grain  among  which  ran  lilac  morn- 
ing-glories, by  the  warm  glow  of  the  earth,  the  violet  re- 
flections of  the  blue  sky,  the  flowers  and  the  shrubs. 
All  this  enchanted  me. 

I  had  already  sent  my  "  Gypsies  "  to  the  Exhibition 
at  Brussels,  when  one  day  my  brother  Louis,  coming 
across  this  little  "  Gleaner  "  in  the  corner  where  it  had 
lain  forgotten  said  to  me,  "Why  do  you  not  send  this 
too  to  the  Exhibition  ? "  "  That  ?  "  I  replied,  "  It  is 
not  worth  while."  And  then  I  had  no  frame. 

My  brother  persisted,  and  in  the  end  discovered  in 
the  barn  an  old,  tarnished  frame  that  had  once  inclosed 
a  poor  portrait.  It  was  near  the  expiration  of  the  time 
of  grace  allowed  in  sending  pictures.  I  sent  it  off  at 
once. 

What  was  my  astonishment  when,  a  few  days  after- 
ward, arriving  in  Brussels,  I  found  my  "  Gypsies  "  badly 
hung  and  my  "  Little  Gleaner  "  on  the  line  in  the  center 
of  a  panel,  where  it  attracted  general  attention. 


LXXVI. 

I  WAS  not  completely  happy,  however  ;  I  suffered  in 
secret.  A  hidden  sentiment  often  carried  me  in  thought 
to  Ghent,  where  unconfessed  torments  held  me  bound. 


232  THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

I  had  resolved  not  to  look  again  at  the  counter- 
drawing  of  the  delicate  face,  and  yet  how  many  times 
did  I  take  it  with  a  trembling  hand  from  the  bottom  of 
my  drawer  ! 

When,  on  the  22d  of  August,  1853,  she  came  to  Cour- 
rieres  with  her  father. 

She  was  now  a  young  lady.  I  was  surprised  at  the 
change  that  had  taken  place  in  her  countenance.  It 
no  longer  wore  a  severe  expression.  She  was  so  happy 
to  see  us  ! 

She  expressed  herself  naively.  "  The  nearer  we  ap- 
proached," she  said,  "  the  more  violently  did  my  heart 
beat." 

What  tenderness  did  her  ingenuous  glance  reveal ! 

Next  day  she  came  to  me  as  I  was  sitting  alone,  and 
said  these  simple  words  :  u  I  must  have  often  caused 
you  pain ;  I  am  very  sorry  for  it.  Will  you  forgive  me  ?  " 
I  kissed  her. 

Two  days  afterward  we  were  engaged. 

It  had  come  about  very  simply.  I  was  painting  her 
portrait  in  the  little  studio,  and  when  I  came  to  the 
eyes  I  stopped,  overcome  by  my  emotion,  and  said  to 
her  :  "  Have  you  understood  me  ?  "  She  nodded  affirm- 
atively. "  WTill  you  be  my  wife  ? "  She  made  the  same 
affirmative  sign. 


LXXVII. 

THE  success  of  my  u  Little  Gleaner  "  had  put  me  in 
the  humor  for  work.  I  thought  of  a  composition  which 
should  contain  a  number  of  these  poor  women  and  lit- 
tle girls  and  boys  who  look  like  flocks  of  sparrows  as 
they  bend  over  the  stubble. 

These  moving  groups  that  dotted   the   sun-burned 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 


233 


plain,  defined  in  dark  shadow  against  the  sky  as  they 
bent  in  varied  attitudes  over  the  earth  gathering  the 
ears  of  grain,  filled  me  with  admiration.  Nothing  could 
be  more  Biblical  than  this  human  flock — the  sunlight 
clinging  to  their  floating  rags,  burning  their  necks,  light- 
ing up  the  ears  of  wheat,  luminously  outlining  dark  pro- 
files, tracing  on  the  tawny  gold  of  the  earth  flickering 
shadows  shot  with  blue  reflections  from  the  zenith. 

As  I  looked  at  this  scene  full  of  simple  grandeur  I 
thought  myself  transported  to  the  times  of  the  patri- 
archs. And,  indeed,  is  not  a  scene  like  this  always 
grand,  always  beautiful  ! 

I  came  away  feeling  as  if  I  had  emerged  from  a 
bath  of  light,  of  which  the  splendors  still  pursued  me 
during  the  night  in  dazzling  visions. 

But  the  more  sublime  I  felt  this  scene  to  be  the 
more  strongly  did  I  feel  my  own  weakness  and  my  in- 
ability to  do  justice  to  it. 

Was  I  not  like  those  foolish  grasshoppers,  also  drunk 
with  light,  and  whose  frantic  exertions  are  only  the 
heroism  of  weakness  !  Poor  brains,  through  which,  too, 
flash  at  night  luminous  visions. 

I  began,  then,  full  of  ardor,  but  also  without  illusion, 
my  first  picture  of  "  The  Gleaners." 

Did  I  think  I  was  attempting  a  new  thing  ?  Not  at 
all.  I  even  thought  that  this  subject,  as  old  as  the  poem 
of  Ruth,  must  have  already  been  handled  by  many  artists. 

I  was  greatly  astonished,  therefore,  when  I  was  after- 
ward told  that  I  had  been  the  first  to  treat  it.  My  first 
picture  of  "The  Gleaners  "  was  painted  in  1854;  the 
"Gleaners  "  of  Millet  was  painted  in  1857. 

I  also  painted  at  this  time  a  group  of  three  young 
girls,  and  a  scene  representing  men  drinking  ("  The  Day 
after  St.  Sebastian  "),  suggested  by  the  customs  of  the 
Archers. 


234  THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

I  took  these  three  pictures  to  Paris,  and  sent  them 
to  the  building  in  the  Avenue  Montagne,  where  the  In- 
ternational Exhibition  of  1855  took  place. 

I  confess  that  I  trembled  at  the  thought  of  this  am- 
bitious attempt. 

I  can  see  myself  standing  now,  nervous  and  restless, 
in  the  vestibule  where  the  names  of  the  pictures  were 
entered. 

I  waited  for  my  turn,  looking  furtively  at  my  poor 
pictures  hanging  against  the  wall  in  a  frightful  light,  and 
before  which  such  resplendent  pictures  were  being  car- 
ried past  by  porters. 

How  insignificant  they  appeared  to  me,  this  flock  of 
girls,  of  whom  the  guard  smoking  his  pipe  seemed  to  be 
the  melancholy  shepherd  ! 

A  gentleman  draws  near,  however ;  a  gentleman 
wearing  the  ribbon  of  the  Legion  of  Honor.  He  leans 
toward  them,  he  draws  back,  he  approaches  them  again. 
Is  he  interested  in  them,  then  ? 

He  sees  by  my  confused  air  that  I  must  be  the 
painter  of  the  picture,  comes  to  me  and  says,  "  Is  that 
yours,  young  man  ?  "  I  make  an  affirmative  gesture. 

He  stretches  out  his  hand  to  me  and  says,  "It  is 
very  good." 

And  I  look  gratefully  at  this  stranger  whose  frank 
expression  makes  my  heart  warm  to  him. 

"  And  you  think,  monsieur,  that — that  my  picture 
will  be  received  ?  " 

"  Received !  Why,  it  will  have  a  success,  a  great 
success ! " 

Then  somewhat  reassured  I  added,  "  May  I  know, 
monsieur,  to  whom  I  have  the  honor — " 

"My  name  is  Alfred  Arago." 

He  was  the  son  of  the  great  Arago !  When  we 
parted  he  already  called  me  "my  friend,"  and  six 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST. 


235 


months  later  we  were  to  say  thee  and  thou  to  each 
other. 

My  uncle  was  exceedingly  proud  and  delighted  when, 
on  my  return  to  Courrieres,  I  related  this  interview  to 
him.  for  he  cherished  a  warm  admiration  for  the  name 
rendered  illustrious  by  the  brothers  Arago  in  literature 
and  science  as  well  as  in  the  annals  of  patriotism. 

But  at  the  end  of  a  few  days,  having  heard  nothing 
further  of  my  picture,  my  apprehensions  returned,  so  im- 
possible did  it  seem  to  me  that  I  should  succeed  in  ob- 
taining a  place  in  that  great  exhibition. 

At  last  I  received  a  letter  from  the  worthy  door- 
keeper of  the  Louvre,  whom  you  know,  and  who  was 
again  attached  to  the  Exhibition. 

It  contained  these  simple  words  (oh,  the  power  of  a 
few  words  !)  that  delighted  my  eyes  more  than  a  Parnas- 
sian strophe  would  have  done  :  "  Your  pictures  have 
been  received,  and  have  been  greatly  admired.  The 
picture  of  *  The  Gleaners '  especially  has  dazzled  the  jury" 


LXXVIII. 

I  OBTAINED  the  predicted  success  at  the  Interna- 
tional Exposition  ;  my  pictures  were  awarded  medals 
and  were  sold. 

My  little  studio  at  the  brewery  had  been  only  pro- 
visional. My  uncle  had  it  pulled  down,  and  caused 
another,  of  large  proportions,  to  be  built  for  me,  for,  full 
of  confidence,  I  had  conceived  a  more  important  com- 
position than  "The  Gleaners,"  "The  Blessing  of  the 
Wheat." 

At  the  same  time  that  I  painted  this  picture  I  paint- 
ed another  also,  called  "  Setting  out  for  the  Fields." 


236  THE   LIFE  OF   AN   ARTIST. 

At  this  epoch  exhibitions  took  place  every  two 
years. 

While  these  pictures  were  at  the  studio  in  the  Boule- 
vard Montparnasse,  where  Gluck  still  worked,  many  per- 
sons had  come  to  see  them. 

Among  these  were  some  celebrated  artists — Gerome, 
Corot,  Belly,  and  others.  One  morning  a  man  of  tall 
stature,  with  a  somewhat  rustic  air,  knocked  at  the  door 
of  the  studio.  "  I  am  Troyon,"  he  said.  "  I  have  heard 
about  your  picture  and  I  would  like  to  see  it." 

It  may  be  imagined  with  what  haste  I  drew  forward 
a  chair  and  asked  him  to  be  seated. 

He  looked  for  a  long,  long  time  at  the  canvas  with- 
out uttering  a  word.  This  silence  disquieted  me  and  I 
ventured  to  ask  his  opinion.  He  rose  abruptly,  grasped 
my  hand,  and  expressed  his  satisfaction  to  me  warmly. 

And  when  I  urged  him  to  point  out  the  faults  of  the 
picture  for  my  future  guidance,  he  answered  :  "Yes,  it 
has  faults,  but  they  are  faults  that  you  will  correct  your- 
self of  soon  enough,  and  perhaps  it  would  be  all  the  bet- 
ter if  you  did  not." 

I  awaited,  then,  with  confidence,  the  opening  of  the 
Salon. 

But  when  the  day  arrived,  my  friends  had  to  look 
for  the  picture  which  they  had  thought  was  to  occupy 
so  prominent  a  place. 

I  had  myself  some  trouble  in  discovering  it,  hung  as 
it  was,  ten  or  twelve  feet  from  the  ground,  above  a 
rather  large  picture  of  Belly.  A  few  dark  silhouettes 
indicated  the  figures,  and  an  indistinct  patch  of  yellow 
the  background.  I  was  dismayed. 

This  was  the  great  success  that  my  fellow-artists  had 
predicted. 

In  a  state  of  nervousness  that  overcame  all  timidity, 
I  hurried  to  Count  Nieuwerkerke,  whose  tall  figure  I 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST. 


237 


caught  sight  of  towering  above  the  crowd.     "  Count," 
I  cried,  "  they  have  hung  my  picture  shamefully  !  " 

He  answered  me  very  gently  :  "  I  can  do  nothing  in 
the  matter ;  I  have  had  no  part  in  the  hanging.  I  am 
sorry  for  this,  for  your  sake,  but  you  know  how  it  is — 
every  one  can  not  be  on  the  line." 

He  turned  away,  then  paused  a  moment  as  if  in 
thought,  and  returning  said,  "  Where  is  your  picture  ?  " 

I  conducted  the  handsome  and  amiable  superintend- 
ent to  the  place  where  my  picture  hung. 

"  Ah,  it  is  that  procession,"  he  said,  giving  me  his 
hand.  "  I  know  it,  I  know  it."  And  calling  the  chief 
of  the  wardens,  he  said  to  him  :  "  How  is  it  that  this 
picture  is  hung  so  high,  when  it  was  on  the  line  yester- 
day ? "  "  It  is  because  Prince  Napoleon  wanted  that 
place  for  a  protegtf."  "Well,  let  it  be  taken  down  the 
next  time  there  is  a  change  made  in  the  hanging." 

Then  he  addressed  me  again  in  these  terms  :  "  Will 
you  sell  me  your  procession  ?  I  will  give  you  five  thou- 
sand francs  for  it ;  it  is  not  much,  but  it  is  for  the  Lux- 
embourg." 

What  happiness ! 

I  thanked  the  superintendent  warmly,  and,  descend- 
ing the  grand  staircase  four  steps  at  a  time,  ran  to  the 
Cafe  Durand  (which  has  since  witnessed  the  transports 
of  many  another  conqueror)  to  write  this  amazing  news 
to  my  good  uncle. 

I  have  never  been  either  at  the  Tuileries  or  at  Com- 
piegne,  nor  have  I  ever  been  intimate  with  M.  de  Nieu- 
werkerke,  but  I  must  here  say  that  he  was  a  true  gen- 
tleman. He  knew,  too,  how  to  rid  himself  of  the  crowd, 
eager  for  notoriety,  who  too  often  obstruct  the  paths  of 
official  life. 

I  had  another  proof  of  his  goodness  after  the  distri- 
bution of  prizes  in  1867,  when  I  expressed  my  surprise 


238  THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

to  him  at  my  promotion  to  the  grade  of  officer,  which 
had  been  unsolicited — which  I  myself  had  never  thought 
of  asking  for,  and  of  which  he  had  not  even  spoken  to 
me  at  the  beginning  of  the  session 

All  he  said  was  :  "  But  you  are  pleased,  are  you 
not?" 

At  the  general  rehanging  my  "  Blessing  of  the  Wheat  " 
was  lowered,  and  the  later  visitors  at  the  Salon  saw  it  in 
a  good  light ;  but  the  newspapers  had,  for  the  most 
part,  finished  their  notices,  and  I  was  not  really  con- 
scious of  the  success  of  my  picture  until  the  next  Salon, 
in  1859,  when  the  press  accorded  unanimous  praise  to 
my  paintings  there  exhibited. 


LXXIX. 

WHILE  my  "  Blessing  of  the  Wheat "  was  waiting  to 
be  done  justice  to  at  the  next  rehanging,  Paul  Baudry 
triumphed  over  all  the  line  with  five  or  six  pictures  of 
greater  or  less  importance — "  Fortune  and  the  Child," 
"  The  Punishment  of  a  Vestal,"  "  Primavera,"  "  Leda," 
and  some  portraits. 

His  success  was  brilliant. 

Edmond  About,  also  at  that  time  in  the  dawn  of  his 
fame,  dedicated  to  him  the  volume  which  he  published 
on  the  Salon  of  1857.  They  had  contracted  a  friend- 
ship at  Rome  close  as  that  between  two  brothers,  con- 
fiding to  each  other  their  youthful  enthusiasm  and  their 
dreams  of  glory.  At  the  first  page  of  this  extended  re- 
view, About  affectionately  addresses  the  painter  thus  : 
"  Pauliccio  mio  !  " 

But,  however  merited  his  success,  Baudry  disap- 
pointed somewhat  those  of  us  who  were  his  old  fellow- 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 


239 


students  at  the  Studio  Drolling.  Our  dear  Baudry  had 
changed. 

He  was  no  longer  the  little  Vendean,  rude  as  the 
wild  trees  of  his  native  forests,  who,  without  grace,  but 
with  a  singular  robustness  and  a  virile  simplicity  of  tone, 
painted  faces  and  figures,  boldly  and  firmly  designed,  at 
a  heat ;  whom  we  had  seen  when  he  lived  on  the  sixth 
story  of  the  isolated  house  of  the  Place  St.-Germain- 
des-Pres,  drawing  on  the  cloth  with  which  he  had  hung 
the  walls  of  his  apartment  barbarously  savage  Chouan 
scenes  ;  whom  we  had  seen  execute,  also  at  the  competi- 
tion of  the  school — a  daring  attempt — the  "  Vitellius  " 
so  true  to  life,  in  which  he  had  dramatically  depicted 
the  stupid  terror  of  that  master  of  the  world  as  he  rolls 
from  the  throne  which  had  become  a  sink  of  corruption, 
the  victim  of  the  ungovernable  fury  of  the  populace. 

Was  he  indeed  the  same  Baudry  ? 

True,  we  still  thought  him  a  delightful  painter. 

His  "  Primavera  "  especially  seemed  to  me  an  exquis- 
ite inspiration  in  which  elegant  figures  are  grouped  with 
enchanting  art,  like  the  clear  soft  harmonies  of  a  delight- 
ful melody. 

But  we  had  counted  on  a  powerful  innovator  of  the 
true  French  school,  and  he  comes  back  to  us  Italianized 
and  with  a  leaning  to  the  tender  in  painting. 

He  had  rounded  his  angles  and  softened  his  expres- 
sion by  contact  with  the  suave  Coreggio,  he  had  bor- 
rowed the  glowing  colors  of  Titian.  And  the  little  Leda, 
lovely  in  her  sacred  grove,  thrilled  with  pleasure  at  the 
gentle  caresses  of  the  divine  swan,  still  more  tender 
under  the  caressing  touch  of  the  brush,  and  "  Fortune  " 
betrayed  the  inspiration  of  Titian  while  attempting  to 
smile  a  la  Leonardo. 

Yes,  frankly,  we  expected,  if  not  something  better, 
at  least  something  different  from  this  savage  son  of  a 


240  THE   LIFE   OF   AN    ARTIST. 

Vendean  shoemaker,  from  this  young  man  on  the  way  to 
become  a  great  painter,  who,  in  his  humble  cradle,  had 
imbibed  the  primitive  sap  which  makes  leaders  of 
epochs. 

We  found  again  the  trace  of  these  early  impressions 
in  his  painting  **  The  Punishment  of  a  Vestal,"  with  its 
faces  tangled  together  like  briars,  its  rugose  frames  with 
knotty  muscles,  where  a  vein  runs  here  and  there  like  a 
bramble,  side  by  side  with  blooming  young  girls  and 
children  with  the  grace  and  freshness  of  the  wild  rose. 

One  feels  that  there  are  here  reminiscences  of  hours 
when,  escaping  from  the  paternal  dwelling,  he  would 
plunge  into  the  woods,  inhaling  the  aroma  of  the 
pines  and  oaks  and  following  with  inquisitive  gaze  the 
fantastic  forms  and  twisted  arabesques  of  the  roots  and 
branches  of  the  trees,  and  at  the  same  time,  with  a  feel- 
ing for  the  beautiful,  silently  contemplating  a  flower, 
then  break  through  the  clearings,  tearing  his  clothes 
among  the  brambles,  to  chase  a  butterfly  whose  colors 
already  awaken  his  curiosity. 

In  1857  Baudry  came  back  from  Rome;  I  met  him 
at  the  Salon,  and  we  embraced  each  other  like  old 
friends.  I  went  to  his  studio,  situated  at  that  time  in 
the  Rue  des  Beaux- Arts. 

We  were  delighted  to  meet  each  other  again  and  in- 
terchange our  experiences  during  the  years  we  had  spent 
so  far  apart  and  in  so  different  a  manner. 

I  found  him  more  correct  as  to  his  attire,  but  other- 
wise little  changed. 

He  was  still  the  same  dark  young  man  with  aquiline 
profile  whose  pale-olive  complexion  harmonized  so  well 
with  the  intense  black  of  his  hair  and  of  his  eyes  that 
had  not  lost  their  fascinating  expression.  His  lip  was 
shaded  by  a  light  mustache,  which  in  moments  of  ab- 
sent-mindedness he  twisted  with  a  gesture  that  was  habit- 


THE  LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 


24I 


ual  to  him.  There  was  a  tinge  of  melancholy  in  his  ex- 
pression, and  he  enjoyed  silently  and  apparently  un- 
moved his  success,  at  which,  with  becoming  modesty,  he 
confessed  himself  a  little  surprised.  He  recognized  that 
he  had  allowed  himself  to  fall  too  much  under  Italian 
influence,  and  he  made  an  effort  to  recover  his  original- 
ity. But  he  vacillated,  and,  in  my  opinion,  again  went 
astray  in  the  "  Toilet  of  Venus,"  which  he  then  had  on 
his  easel,  and  whose  affectedness  savors  a  little  of  the 
Pompadour  school. 

He  finished  also  the  "  Madeleine,"  fine  in  tone,  and 
full  of  tender  feeling,  although  the  figure,  with  its  weak 
and  awkward  joints,  is  wanting  in  equilibrium. 

These  pictures  made  their  appearance  at  the  Salon 
of  1859  at  the  same  time  with  my  "  Planting  of  the  Cal- 
vary," my  "  Gleaners  of  the  Luxembourg,"  and  my 
<:  Monday  "  (a  drinking  scene). 

The  Salon  of  1861  treated  both  of  us  well.  Baudry 
exhibited  "  The  Little  St.  John  the  Baptist,"  standing, 
bright  and  modern  looking,  his  very  remarkable  portrait 
of  Guizot,  and  his  "  Charlotte  Corday." 

I  had  in  the  Exhibition  "The  Weeders,"  "The  Fire," 
"  Evening,"  and  "  The  Colza." 

We  both  received  the  cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor. 

I  think  I  can  now  see  Baudry  descending  the  steps 
of  the  platform  where  he  had  just  received  the  cross  in 
the  midst  of  a  salvo  of  bravos,  pale  and  trembling  with 
emotion,  his  brow  lighted  by  some  mysterious  aureole, 
the  cynosure  of  our  admiring  eyes. 

And  as  he  passed  behind  me  to  regain  his  place 
which  was  near  mine,  he  put  his  hand,  trembling  with 
happiness,  on  my  shoulder,  and  whispered  in  my  ear  : 
"  All  the  same,  standing  there  so  long  is  enough  to  break 
one's  legs." 

But  Baudry's  greatest  success  was  "  The  Pearl  and 
16 


242  THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 

the  Wave."  What  a  delightful  personification  of  the  sea, 
pure  and  blue,  and  fringed  with  foam  !  How  marvelous 
that  warm  and  pearly  figure,  that  ravishing  head  thrown 
back  in  ecstasy,  absorbed  in  its  vision  of  light !  What 
a  voluptuous,  yet  chaste  charm  it  breathes  !  And  how 
original  the  style,  though  different,  indeed,  from  that  of 
which  the  artist  gave  promise  in  his  earlier  paintings. 

Why,  after  painting  this  picture,  did  he  return  to  the 
Italian  Renaissance  in  his  "  Diana  chasing  Love,"  a  pict- 
ure he  recommenced  three  or  four  times  before  he  could 
succeed  in  satisfying  himself?  Because  he  went  to 
Rome  to  prepare  for  his  great  work  on  the  Opera 
House. 

I  think  he  would  have  done  better  if  he  had  com- 
posed and  executed  in  Paris  his  great  decorative  paint- 
ings for  this  theatre.  It  was  a  fine  opportunity  to  regain 
entire  freedom. 

He  is  haunted  by  dreams  of  supreme  grandeur  of 
vast  epic  compositions  ;  and,  instead  of  giving  himself  up 
freely  to  his  inspiration,  he  turns  his  eyes  again  toward 
Italy. 

He  goes  to  bow  down  humbly  before  the  awful  god 
of  the  Sistine  Chapel. 

He  there  erects  a  scaffolding  from  which  he  will  not 
descend  until  he  shall  have  imitated  the  grandeur  of  ex- 
ecution of  Michael  Angelo,  a  heroic  and  fruitless  labor 
in  which  he  will  exhaust  his  health. 

Far  be  it  from  me  to  deny  the  tremendous  amount 
of  talent  expended  by  Baudry  on  \hzfoyer  of  the  Opera 
House,  but  when  I  think  of  all  the  ravishing  creations 
of  which  this  overwhelming  labor  has  deprived  us,  when 
I  think  of  the  healthful  joy  which  the  artist  would  have 
had  in  painting  them,  when  I  look  again  at  "The  Pearl 
and  the  Wave,"  I  can  not  help  deploring  the  fact  that 
he  should  have  exhausted  his  physical  strength  and  his 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST. 


243 


genius  in  this  undertaking,  how  heroic  soever  it  may 
have  been. 

I  deplore  this  fact  all  the  more  because  this  work  is 
at  so  great  a  height  that  it  is  almost  lost  to  view. 

Ah,  he  has  paid  dearly  for  a  fame  which  he  would 
have  attained  more  naturally  by  following  the  path  sowed 
with  recollections  of  his  childhood  passed  at  La  Roche- 
sur-Yon,  where  Fortune  came  one  day  to  find  the  little 
Paul,  not  on  the  brink  of  a  well,  but  on  the  ill-joined 
planks  of  a  rustic  platform,  playing  on  the  violin  for  the 
peasants  to  dance. 

Happily  there  are  to  be  found  traces  of  his  original 
manner  in  many  of  his  paintings,  notably  in  his  portraits. 
For  his  excessive  elegance  was  of  no  avail ;  in  his  paint- 
ing, as  in  his  person,  there  is  something  of  the  rudeness 
of  the  people,  the  harshness  of  his  first  impression  ;  in 
his  Vendean  sabots  he  still  keeps  a  little  hay. 

His  "  Glorification  of  the  Law  "  was  the  occasion  of 
an  indisputable  triumph. 

Baudry  died  at  the  height  of  his  fame,  and  yet  he 
died  a  saddened  man.  Even  before  his  illness  he  was 
dejected.  Was  this  because  he  felt  within  him  some- 
thing sublime  to  which  he  had  not  been  able  to  give 
complete  expression,  always  diverted  from  the  task  by 
the  admiration  of  others. 

Ah,  why  was  he  not  permitted  to  live  a  few  years 
longer?  Why  was  he  not  permitted  to  execute  the 
"  Jeanne  d'Arc  "  of  which  he  had  so  long  dreamed,  and 
which,  by  the  power  of  love,  would  have  reconquered 
for  him  his  true  country,  France  ? 

He  leaves  behind  him  one  of  the  greatest  names  of 
our  school — a  name,  however,  which,  in  my  opinion, 
would  have  been  still  greater  if  he  had  never  left 
France. 

I  have  insisted  strongly  on  this  point. 


244 


THE   LIFE   OF   AN 


By  the  preceding  pages  it  may  be  seen  how  great  is  my 
veneration  for  the  old  masters.  I  have  counseled  young 
artists  not  to  throw  themselves  into  the  unknown  with- 
out leaning  upon  them  in  the  beginning  and  returning 
frequently  to  consult  them,  but  this  is  on  condition  that 
they  shall  retain  their  own  individuality. 

In  fact,  the  greatest  of  the  historical  painters  of  our 
French  school  seems  to  have  been  laboring  to  prove  that 
those  who  preach  the  doctrine  of  absolute  independence 
are  in  the  right. 

We  have  seen  David  renounce  his  powerful  and  brill- 
iant original  qualities  in  order  to  imitate  feebly  the 
Greeks  of  the  Decadence  ;  we  have  seen  Ingres  striving 
desperately  to  keep  up  with  Raphael,  letting  drop  his 
own  most  precious  gifts  by  the  way;  we  have  seen  Dela- 
croix entangle  his  powerful  and  sublime  dramatic  senti- 
ment in  the  magnificent  harmonies  of  Rubens  and  the 
inflations  of  Tintoretto  ;  and  now  Baudry  also  seems  too 
often  to  disdain  his  own  strong  qualities  derived  from 
the  natal  soil  in  order  to  seek  inspiration  at  foreign 
sources. 


LXXX. 

AT  this  period  I  occasionally  went  to  visit  Baudry. 
Sometimes  we  breakfasted  together,  and  I  had  an  oppor- 
tunity to  appreciate  all  the  tenderness  of  his  heart  and 
the  fineness  of  his  wit.  He  adored  his  brother  Ambrose, 
and  was  devoted  to  his  parents.- 

At  first  glance,  he  seemed  extremely  reserved,  and 
even  a  little  disdainful,  but  he  had  a  strong  affection  for 
his  friends,  which  he  manifested  to  them  in  a  thousand 
ways. 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST.  245 

I  have  tried  to  describe  the  man  and  the  artist ;  the 
friend  was  in  no  way  their  inferior. 

He  was  ambitious,  like  all  artists,  but  not  at  all  vain  ; 
it  might  be  said  of  him  that  he  was  modestly  proud,  but 
nothing  can  better  describe  him  than  the  charming  let- 
ters which  he  wrote  to  his  friends,  and  which  have  been 
given  to  the  public. 

He  hesitated  long  before  exhibiting  his  pictures ;  he 
feared  criticism.  He  said,  speaking  of  certain  malevo- 
lent critics  of  the  Salon :  "  Am  I  not  the  first  to  suffer 
for  my  faults,  and  do  I  not  strive  to  correct  them? 
Why,  then,  do  they  take  a  malignant  pleasure  in  castigat- 
ing me  in  public  ?  "  And  he  would  add  :  "  Bah  !  I  will 
exhibit  no  more  pictures  ;  there  is  nothing  but  hard 
knocks  to  be  got  by  it." 

He  carried  his  passion  for  his  art  to  rapture,  but  it 
caused  him  keen  suffering  also.  I  think  the  struggle 
killed  him  before  his  time. 

When  he  had  finished  his  grand  decorative  paint- 
ings, and  wished  to  return  to  his  easel,  he  perceived  that 
he  had  lost  his  former  admirable  power  of  execution. 

The  fine,  even  coloring  of  his  earlier  pictures  had 
crumbled  into  sharp,  dry  hatchings.  His  imagination 
had  never  been  fresher  or  more  brilliant,  but  a  sort  of 
weakness  of  touch  prevented  him  from  defining  with 
precision  the  images  he  saw.  The  charm  endured,  for 
it  was  derived  from  deeper,  more  mysterious  sources, 
but  his  painting,  properly  speaking,  was  on  the  decline. 

I  compared  him,  at  the  time,  to  Michael  Angelb,  who 
by  dint  of  contemplating  the  vaulted  dome  of  the  Sis- 
tine  Chapel,  where  the  heaven  of  his  sublime  visions  un- 
rolled itself  before  him,  was  no  longer  able,  when  he 
descended  from  his  scaffolding,  to  bend  his  head  to 
contemplate  the  earth. 

Poor   Baudry  felt   that   he   was    ill,  and   struggled 


246  THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

against  his  malady — so  successfully,  that  he  produced 
several  other  exquisite  works,  among  them  "  The  Rape 
of  Psyche,"  his  swan's  song. 


LXXXI. 

I  SPENT  a  part  of  the  summer  of  1857  at  Marlotte, 
on  the  borders  of  the  Forest  of  Fontainebleau. 

I  lodged  at  Father  Antony's. 

At  this  inn,  of  more  than  doubtful  cleanliness,  there 
were  at  this  time  Desjobert,  Appian,  Daubigny,  some 
other  artists,  and  Theodore  de  Banville,  who  had  just 
published  his  "  Odes  Funambulesques." 

I  worked  at  first  with  a  good  deal  of  ardor  in  the 
forest,  whose  austere  grandeur  impressed  me.  But  soon, 
as  was  the  case  when  I  was  a  child  at  Labroye,  I  felt 
myself  seized  with  a  sort  of  spleen,  a  gloom  blacker  than 
the  blackest  haunts  of  vipers. 

The  first  impression  I  had  received  was  one  of  keen 
delight,  but  this  soon  changed  to  a  poignant  melan- 
choly. 

So  that,  returning  to  the  inn,  on  emerging  from  the 
wood,  I  welcomed  with  a  sense  of  deliverance  the  sight 
of  the  little  paths  running  along  the  wheat  fields  bor- 
dered with  willows  with  drooping  foliage. 

I  then  studied  the  rustic  side  of  the  country,  wilder 
than  Courrieres,  and  more  in  Millet's  style. 

I  cherish  a  pleasing  recollection  of  the  hours  of  hard 
work  spent  among  those  clever  artists. 

Daubigny,  like  his  style  of  art,  was  delightfully  frank 
and  simple. 

Our  favorite  haunt  was  Montigny,  situated  on  the 
banks  of  the  Loing,  where  grew  thick-leaved  plants  and 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 


247 


flowering  reeds.  What  a  charming  study  he  made  there 
one  day  of  a  simple  belfry  and  a  few  little  houses  with 
terraced  gardens  reflecting  their  images  in  the  water ! 

And  in  the  evening  we  would  return  to  the  inn,  fam- 
ished with  hunger,  and  seated  in  Father  Antony's  arbor, 
with  what  keen  relish  would  we  devour  the  sauted  rab- 
bits, or  the  carps  dressed  with  wine,  washed  down  with 
the  thin  wine  of  the  country  ! 

Our  studies  were  taken  from  the  packing-cases  and 
hung  up  on  the  walls  of  the  inn.  And  every  morning 
we  set  out  to  make  the  conquest  of  some  new  motive,  and 
our  umbrellas  were  to  be  seen  like  a  crop  of  gigantic 
mushrooms,  dotting  the  field  in  the  sunshine. 

There  is  nothing  more  delightful  than  the  sense  of 
physical  well-being  and  mental  exhilaration  which  the 
artist  feels  in  outdoor  study  ;  he  enjoys  at  the  same 
time  the  pleasures  of  art  and  of  nature  ;  he  breathes  the 
perfumes  of  the  wood  and  of  the  new-mown  hay  ;  he 
forgets  the  anxieties  of  daily  life ;  he  has  the  delighted 
satisfaction  of  seeing  the  image  of  what  he  admires  take 
shape  and  perfect  itself  under  his  pencil.  How  many 
exquisite  pleasures  does  he  experience  at  once  ! 

What  rapture  to  penetrate  little  by  little  into  the 
secrets  of  effect,  to  discover  its  infallible  laws  ! 

Is  not  each  page  of  nature  a  visible  symphony  whose 
wonderful  harmonies  reveal  themselves  to  the  charmed 
eye  that  can  perceive  them  ? 

And  this  symphony  he  sees  gradually  emerge  on  a 
simple  canvas  from  the  chaos  of  the  first  touches ; 
formless  and  discordant  at  first,  little  by  little  it  grows 
clear  and  harmonious,  and  the  artist  feels  his  soul  exalted 
in  a  sort  of  delightful  intoxication,  and  his  hand  works 
swiftly  and  at  the  same  time  unerringly,  guided  by  the 
impulse  of  his  clear  and  rapid  perception. 

And  like  flights  of  magical  birds  in  the  midst  of  this 


248  THE    LfFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 

work  which  might  be  thought  so  absorbing  a  thousand 
delightful  souvenirs  cross  the  mind,  reminiscences  awak- 
ened by  a  tone  or  a  harmony,  that  gleam  with  a  thousand 
colors  as  they  fly  past,  like  the  soap-bubbles  which  chil- 
dren send  into  the  air. 

When  several  painters  are  working  together,  this  state 
of  happy  excitement  provokes  a  thousand  exclamations 
of  wild  gayety  and  sparkling  sallies  of  wit. 

How  quickly  would  we  hurry  to  our  room,  on  our 
return,  to  judge  the  effect  of  the  study,  for  the  light  out 
of  doors  is  even  more  unfavorable  to  painting  than  was 
the  blue-flowered  paper  of  the  inn. 


LXXXII. 

I  RETURNED  to  Courrieres,  taking  with  me  vivid  im- 
pressions from  my  sojourn  at  Marlotte. 

I  immediately  set  to  work  at  "  Calling  the  Gleaners  " 
and  the  "  Planting  of  Calvary." 

I  had  witnessed  this  ceremony  long  before  in  a  vil- 
lage near  Courrieres,  a  spectacle  which  had  awakened  in 
my  mind  the  remembrance  of  that  first  planting  of  a 
Calvary  which  I  have  mentioned  in  narrating  the  events 
of  my  childhood. 

Felix  de  Vigne  came  to  spend  his  vacation  at  Cour- 
rieres, accompanied  by  my  young  fiancee. 

He  profited  by  the  presence  of  my  models  to  make 
some  studies  which  astonished  us  by  the  remarkable 
progress  they  denoted  in  this  artist  who  was  now  in  his 
fiftieth  year.  It  was  as  if  a  second  youth  had  renewed 
his  powers.  His  color  grew  clearer,  his  touch  more  flexi- 
ble. It  was  indeed  light  that  sprung  from  the  touch  of  his 
pencil.  Adieu  to  the  influence  of  his  master  Paclinck  ! 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST. 


249 


My  young  fiancee  posed  for  me  for  the  Calvary  as 
one  of  the  three  young  girls  in  white  bearing  the  sym- 
bols of  the  passion,  the  girl  who  carries  the  crown  of 
thorns. 

It  was  a  happy  time,  happy  as  it  was  possible  for  it 
to  be  although  our  affairs  were  still  embarrassed,  finan- 
cially speaking,  and  consequently  we  were  not  in  the 
enjoyment  of  complete  independence,  but,  thanks  to  the 
good  management  and  the  unselfish  devotion  of  my 
uncle  and  the  consideration  which  he  enjoyed,  our 
pecuniary  position  improved  every  day,  and  allowed  us 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  this  independence  in  the  distance. 

We  all  remained  at  the  brewery,  now  enlarged  and 
brightened  by  the  presence  of  a  young  woman,  my  sister- 
in-law,  Constance  Charlon,  whom  Louis  had  married, 
and  who  was  in  complete  harmony  with  us. 

She  was  the  sympathetic  confidante  of  the  secrets  of 
my  heart  during  the  long  period  which,  owing  to  our 
pecuniary  embarrassments,  of  necessity  elapsed  before 
my  marriage,  so  ardently  desired,  took  place. 

The  house  was  enlivened  also  by  the  sports  and  the 
prattle  of  their  first  two  children  whom  we  adored,  and 
whose  death  later  on  caused  us  such  bitter  grief. 

Emile,  who  had  returned  from  his  regiment,  after 
having  tried  several  business  enterprises  in  every  way 
uncongenial  to  him,  began  to  be  discontented  at  not 
being  able  to  employ  his  energies  in  a  way  suited  to  his 
natural  aptitudes. 

As  he  used  to  do  in  Paris,  he  would  occasionally 
take  my  palette  and  begin  painting  imaginary  landscapes 
(he  who  had  never  made  even  the  simplest  study),  which 
astonished  us  by  their  spirit  and  truth  to  nature. 

Where  had  he  learned  to  see  and  interpret  nature 
thus? 

But  he  attached  no  importance  to  these  attempts. 


250  THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST. 

Could  he  be  a  painter  ?  This  was  in  his  eyes  a  dream 
impossible  of  realization.  Besides,  our  uncle  would 
never  lend  a  favorable  ear  to  such  a  project. 

As  for  me,  I  did  not  dare  to  advise  him. 

It  was  Da  Winne  who,  astonished  at  my  brother's  at- 
tempts, decided  us  to  put  him  in  the  path  where  he  was 
soon  to  make  such  rapid  progress. 

My  uncle  had  a  studio  fitted  up  for  him,  and  he  set 
himself  assiduously  to  work. 

Louis,  who  managed  the  brewery,  painted  also  at 
times  in  his  leisure  moments.  He  even  once  exhibited 
one  of  his  studies  under  the  pseudonym  of  Noterb.  He 
also  had  a  natural  aptitude  for  poetry,  and  amused  him- 
self in  making  verses  that  were  incorrect,  indeed,  but 
not  without  grace. 

Mayor  and  councilor  of  the  district,  my  uncle  was 
as  much  of  an  enthusiast  as  ever,  although  he  was  ap- 
proaching his  sixtieth  year.  He  continued  his  solitary 
walks  through  the  fields,  always  turning  over  in  his  mind 
some  new  improvement  for  the  place — a  town  hall,  an 
asylum,  schools  for  girls  and  for  boys,  a  bridge  across 
the  Deule,  the  restoration  of  the  church — works  which 
were  all  afterward  carried  to  a  successful  termination 
with  the  aid  of  the  Government.  He  was  always  engaged 
in  some  new  plan,  always  in  correspondence  with  the 
prefect,  the  sub-prefect,  the  engineer,  the  architect,  the 
road  surveyor,  inviting  them  to  dine  with  us  whenever 
their  business  chanced  to  bring  them  to  our  place. 

In  no  case,  on  the  arrival  of  the  mail,  did  he  open 
his  private  letters  before  having  first  opened  those  which 
concerned  public  business. 

Shall  I  speak  of  the  domestic  or  conjugal  dissensions 
in  which  he  was  called  to  play  the  part  of  peace-maker  ? 

Or  could  he  neglect  to  relieve  worthy  cases  of  dis- 
tress, he  who  was  still  embarrassed  in  his  own  affairs  ? 


THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST.  251 

He  began,  it  is  true,  by  scolding  the  petitioners,  who 
quietly  let  the  storm  pass  by,  knowing  very  well  that 
this  manifestation  of  ill-humor  was  already  a  proof  of 
compassion. 

I  remember  one  day  when  annoyed  at  being  dis- 
turbed during  dinner,  he  said  impatiently  to  his  trouble- 
some visitor  :  "  Do  you  not  dine,  then  ?  "  "  Thanks, 
Monsieur  le  Maire,"  replied  the  other,  "  I  dined  before 
coming." 

I  married  Elodie  de  Vigne  on  the  2pth  of  April, 
1858.  On  the  26th  of  July,  1859,  was  born  our  daugh- 
ter Virginie,  who  was  to  be  the  source  of  so  much  hap- 
piness to  us. 

Emile  also  had  married.  The  phalanstery  of  the 
brewery  became  too  small.  Each  family  had  to  -have  its 
own  home. 

We  took  up  our  abode  in  a  house  built  for  a  vicarage 
by  my  father  in  his  prosperous  days. 

It  was  in  this  dwelling,  with  its  little  front  yard  con- 
cealed from  view  by  a  wall,  and  its  peaceful  and  modest 
garden,  that  we  passed  our  existence.  Here  it  was  that 
Virginie  grew  up.  Here  it  was  when  three  years  old, 
as  soon  as  she  was  able  to  hold  a  pencil  in  her  hand, 
that  she  began  to  make  scrawls  of  peasants,  in  which  we 
could  soon  begin  to  see  some  meaning.  When  about 
seven  years  old  she  made  compositions,  representing, 
for  the  most  part,  children  at  play,  remarkable  for  their 
action  and  their  foreshortening. 

But,  if  I  shall  still  speak  of  my  impressions  as  an 
artist,  and  of  our  trips  to  Brittany  and  the  South,  hence- 
forth, like  our  modest  house,  I  must  place  a  wall  between 
the  public  and  my  life.  I  should  have  to  depict  emo- 
tions of  too  private  and  personal  a  nature. 

I  shall  speak  henceforth  only  of  art  and  of  nature, 
and  will  only  permit  myself  some  necrological  details 


252  THE    LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

regarding  persons  mentioned  in  these  recollections  and 
in  whom  the  reader  may  have  become  interested. 

For,   alas !    the  hour  of  mourning  will  soon  strike 
again  ! 


LXXXIII. 

BUT,  however  profitable  my  sojourn  at  Courrieres 
might  be,  it  was  not  long  before  I  felt  the  need  of  seek- 
ing new  inspirations  elsewhere. 

The  too  prolonged  sight  of  the  same  objects  in  the 
end  dulls  the  emotions.  The  mind  constantly  revolving 
in  the  same  circle  of  observation  loses  its  elasticity. 

The  peasants  no  longer  inspired  me  as  formerly,  and 
my  imagination  exhausted  itself  in  chimerical  dreams. 

Finding  everything  commonplace  and  unworthy  of 
reproduction,  I  grew  extremely  indolent,  I  felt  it  an 
effort  to  look  for  models,  and  the  finest  of  these  did  not 
please  me  when  they  were  in  the  studio — not  even  the 
tall  Augustine  of  the  "  Turkey  Keeper  "  and  the  "  Day's 
Work  Done." 

Even  the  very  sunshine  seemed  sad  in  this  insig- 
nificant country  ! 

And  I  caught  glimpses,  in  my  dreams,  of  distant 
shores  flooded  with  light — sublime  scenes,  peopled  by 
beings  of  extraordinary  beauty. 

I  had  never  traveled,  and  these  visions  of  light  im- 
pelled me  to  the  south  of  France.  I  did  not  yet  dare  to 
dream  of  Italy. 

By  a  happy  coincidence  at  this  critical  moment, 
Count  Duchatel,  who  had  bought  my  "  Weeders,"  de- 
siring a  companion-piece  to  that  picture,  invited  me  to 
Medoc  to  witness  the  vintage  of  his  estate  of  Chateau- 


THE    LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 


253 


Lagrange.  He  had  given  me  this  motive  as  the  subject 
of  his  order. 

The  occasion  was  found.  I  would  return  by  the 
south. 

And  I  became  more  and  more  absorbed  every  day 
in  my  glowing  dreams. 

One  city,  especially,  attracted  me — Aries.  Aries  the 
Greek !  Written,  this  name  dazzled  me  ;  spoken,  it 
ravished  my  ear  by  its  indescribable  sweetness.  Aries ! 

In  the  mirages  of  my  imagination  I  beheld  it  seated 
on  the  banks  of  its  sapphire  river,  that  wound  like  a 
peacock's  neck  between  its  white  and  gilded  walls.  I 
pictured  it  to  myself  as  situated  in  an  ideal  plain,  while 
its  suburbs  reposed  on  horizontal  rocks,  like  the  immense 
steps  of  a  Cyclopean  amphitheatre.  The  pearly-gray 
hue  of  these  rocks  cast  into  relief  the  brilliant  bloom  of 
the  clumps  of  oleanders  which  grew  in  their  crevices. 
The  houses  had  a  simplicity,  a  harmony  of  line,  a  just- 
ness of  proportion,  which  charmed  at  once.  Separated 
by  groves  of  olives  and  orange-trees,  they  bordered  long 
streets  flooded  with  light.  Noble  beings,  with  pure  pro- 
files, firm,  rounded  necks,  and  olive  complexions,  of  dig- 
nified and  unaffected  mien,  walked  through  them — beings 
endowed  not  only  with  the  beauty  of  the  Greeks,  but 
also  with  their  love  for  and  their  comprehension  of  the 
Beautiful. 

Magnificent  antique  ruins  added  to,  but  did  not  con- 
stitute, the  beauty  of  the  city,  playing  there  the  part  of 
ancestral  portraits. 

The  temperature  must  be  mild  there.  In  winter  its 
hills  sheltered  it  on  the  north,  in  summer  the  fountains 
and  the  breeze  from  the  river  brought  it  coolness.  Such 
was  the  Aries  of  my  dreams. 

And  I  set  out  full  of  enthusiasm,  intoxicated  with 
the  impatient  happiness  of  youth.  I  set  out  alone,  and 


254  THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

my  enthusiasm,  without  anyone  to  moderate  it,  gave  full 
play  to  its  poetic  ardor. 

And  I  fancied  I  discovered  marvels  in  the  things 
among  which  I  had  passed  my  childhood,  and  which 
only  presented  themselves  to  me  under  a  different  aspect 
and  differently  grouped,  but  transfigured,  as  it  were,  in 
the  light  cast  upon  them  by  my  imagination :  "  There 
are  the  Apennines,  there  the  Caucasus  !  " 

O  deceptive  intoxication  of  our  first  travels  !  O  the 
danger  of  loving  a  country  for  that  which  distinguishes 
it  from  other  countries  and  of  forgetting  grand  and  uni- 
versal Nature,  whose  laws  are  everywhere  manifest ! 

How  impatient  I  was  ! 

First  the  Loire  ! 

But  how  irritating  it  is  to  travel  by  railroad  !  For  a 
long  time  I  suffered  the  tortures  of  Tantalus,  obliged  as 
I  was  to  be  satisfied  with  divining  the  river  through  the 
distant  poplars  which  bordered  its  banks  ;  then  I  caught 
glimpses  of  it  through  the  hedges,  the  railway  stations, 
and  the  trains  standing  on  the  road,  all  which  made  me 
fume  ;  at  last  I  was  entranced  by  the  full  view  of  the 
enchanted  river  dominated  by  the  sleeping  chateaux  on 
its  banks. 

Not  even  Mangin,  who,  his  cap  on  his  head,  retailed 
his  crayons  and  his  puns  in  front  of  the  Palace  of  Justice 
— not  even  Mangin  himself  could  draw  me  from  my 
dream  ! 

This  Palace  of  Justice  seemed  to  me  none  the  less, 
however,  to  resemble  the  Parthenon.  There  were  there 
immense  elms,  and  rainbows  spanning  the  jets  of  the 
fountains !  Gazelles  (sic,  I  added  in  the  letter  I  wrote 
to  my  wife)  roamed  at  will  in  the  garden  of  the  pre- 
fecture. 

And  the  sunshine  !  How  it  streamed  !  I  thought 
myself  already  in  the  south  ! 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 


255 


And  to  think  that  wonders  like  these  were  to  suc- 
ceed one  another  in  ever-increasing  splendor  until  we 
should  reach  Aries ! 

This  state  of  mental  intoxication  lasted  the  whole 
time  of  my  stay  in  Medoc. 

I  arrived  at  the  Chateau  of  Lagrange  at  the  time  of 
the  vintage  of  1862.  ^ 

When  I  reached  the  chateau  I  found  every  one  out 
visiting,  with  the  exception  of  the  head  of  the  family. 

I  directed  myself  to  the  steward,  who  showed  me  to 
my  room,  and  sent  me  the  valet  who  was  to  attend  me. 

After  making  some  changes  in  my  toilet,  I  pre- 
sented myself  in  the  study  of  Count  Duchatel,  whom  I 
found  absorbed  in  the  perusal  of  some  lengthy  docu- 
ment. He  received  me  with  a  somewhat  brusque  kind- 
ness, and  with  so  much  simplicity  and  cordiality  of 
manner,  that  he  put  me  immediately  at  my  ease. 

His  expression  was  identical  with  that  of  his  bust 
by  Chapu,  now  in  the  Louvre,  in  the  hall  to  which  his 
name  was  given  in  recognition  of  his  presentation  to 
the  Museum,  of  some  work  of  art. 

A  broad  forehead,  raised  eyebrows,  indicating  intel- 
ligence ;  small,  bright,  gray  eyes  with  sparse  lashes  ;  a 
large,  well-rooted  aquiline  nose  ;  a  mouth  benevolent, 
although  shrewd  in  expression,  whose  corners  were  ha- 
bitually drawn  up  by  an  indulgent  irony;  a  powerful  and 
prominent  chin,  expressive  of  self-will ;  a  massive  head  ; 
a  body  strongly  built  and  slightly  obese,  easy  and  digni- 
fied in  its  movements — such  was  the  first  impression  I 
received  of  Count  Duchatel. 

This  retired  statesman  loved  both  nature  and  the 
arts  ;  and  notwithstanding  his  habitual  intercourse  with 
the  highest  society  (perhaps  for  that  very  reason,  for  ex- 
tremes meet),  had  in  his  general  appearance  something 
country-bred. 


256  THE   LIFE  OF   AN   ARTIST. 

He  spoke  little.  His  knowledge  of  men  and  things 
often  plunged  him  into  fits  of  silent  meditation,  which 
he  would  interrupt  occasionally  to  throw  out  some  short 
and  pointed  remark. 

He  liked  to  indulge  in  a  gentle  raillery,  blended  with 
that  sort  of  amiable  skepticism  which  is  often  acquired 
in  political  life. 

The  vast  H6tel  of  the  Rue  de  Varenne  threw  open 
its  doors  to  the  residents  of  the  Faubourg  Saint  Ger- 
main, but  Lagrange  extended  its  hospitality  to  a  few 
intimate  friends  only,  one  of  those  who  most  frequently 
came  there  as  a  guest  being  Monsieur  Vitet,  of  the  French 
Academy. 

In  the  evening  there  were  often  reunions  at  the 
chateau,  composed  of  the  proprietors  of  the  neighboring 
estates,  and  Madame  Duchatel  sometimes  gave  dinners 


On  leaving  Count  Duchatel's  study,  I  descended  to 
the  drawing-room,  and  it  was  not  long  before  I  saw  the 
carriages  returning,  containing  the  Duke  and  the  Duch- 
ess of  La  Tremoille,  a  newly-married  couple  overflowing 
with  spirits,  a  few  guests,  and  the  soul  of  the  chateau, 
the  admirable  woman  who  was  called  Countess  Du- 
chatel. 

I  was  her  compatriot,  she  being  a  native  of  Douai, 
and  she  laid  stress  upon  this  fact  in  the  friendly  welcome 
she  accorded  me. 

She  was  more  than  a  gracious  lady;  she  was  an 
adorable  woman,  and,  I  may  say,  that  during  the  two 
seasons  I  spent  at  Lagrange  I  never  for  a  single  instant 
saw  her  when  she  was  not  occupied  in  contributing  to 
the  happiness  or  comfort  of  others,  extending  her  so- 
licitude to  the  poor  as  well  as  to  the  rich. 

She  was  possessed  of  as  much  energy  as  sweetness 
of  character,  and  one  day  during  a  walk  she  related  to 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST.  257 

me  with  touching  simplicity  some  tragic  incidents  of 
the  Revolution  of  February,  in  which  she  had  displayed 
genuine  heroism. 

As  may  be  seen  from  a  portrait  of  her  by  Winter- 
halter,  painted  at  the  time  of  her  residence  at  the  house 
of  the  Minister  of  the  Interior,  she  had  in  her  youth  been 
superbly  beautiful,  with  a  beauty  of  a  blonde,  Flemish 
type,  like  one  of  Rubens'  goddesses. 

She  was  now  much  thinner,  but.  notwithstanding  her 
years,  her  countenance  still  preserved  a  youthful  and 
charming  expression.  ' 

An  incident  related  by  her  in  a  letter  to  me  dated 
December  3,  1863,  will  give  some  idea  of  her  goodness 
of  heart.  I  quote  the  passage  referring  to  it,  and  which, 
in  the  moral  beauty  it  unconsciously  reveals,  is  more 
eloquent  than  any  words  of  mine  could  be.  It  is  as 
follows  : 

"  I  have  had  a  keen  sorrow  since  your  departure. 
My  poor  Flemish  coachman,  just  as  the  surgeon  who 
was  attending  him  at  Bordeaux  thought  him  cured — he 
had  written  to  me  on  the  2d  that  he  was  going  to  send 
him  back — died  on  the  5th  of  last  month.  I  went  to 
Bordeaux  and  spent  there  in  the  hospital,  at  Alfred's 
bedside,  two  very  sad  days. 

"  Erysipelas  declared  itself,  spread  over  the  body, 
and — 

"  I  have  just  learned,  and  I  think  it  well  to  mention 
the  fact  to  you,  that  a  whitlow  is  always  a  serious  thing, 
and  should  be  attended  to  at  once,  especially  when  it  is 
the  result  of  a  sting." 

Ah,  how  simple  is  true  charity  !  This  great  lady  sees 
no  special  merit  in  leaving  the  society  of  her  friends  to 
go  and  spend  two  days  at  Bordeaux,  in  a  gloomy  hos- 
pital, to  console  her  dying  coachman  ;  and  she  is  mind- 
ful, in  writing  to  a  friend,  of  pointing  out  the  danger  of 
17 


258  THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 

neglecting  an  ailment  more  serious  than  it  is  generally 
thought  to  be — always  intent  on  being  of  service  to 
others. 

But  when  we  consider  her  life  spent  among  the 
splendors  and  the  futilities  of  the  great  world,  we  may 
well  see  in  this  action  something  not  far  from  saintli- 
ness. 

I  can  picture  to  myself  the  close  friendship  that  was 
later  to  unite  her  and  her  daughter-in-law,  the  younger 
Countess  Duchatel,  who  was  to  die  so  young,  and  whose 
remarkable  life  was  the  subject  of  an  obituary  notice 
which  touched  us  deeply  and  awoke  our  sympathetic 
admiration,  for  Marie  d'Harcourt  had  a  highly  endowed 
mind,  and  a  soul  that  responded  to  every  noble  emo- 
tion. 

There  was  no  thought  of  her  at  Lagrange  at  this 
time,  however.  The  Viscount  Duchatel,  her  future  hus- 
band, could  not  have  even  dreamed  of  her,  child  as  she 
then  was. 

Elegant  and  distinguished  in  appearance,  but  ex- 
tremely reserved  in  his  manner,  the  viscount  was  re- 
garded as  somewhat  cold,  somewhat  supercilious  even, 
by  the  beautiful  ladies  who  visited  the  chateau.  In  re- 
ality he  was  not  fond  of  society,  preferring  study,  soli- 
tary meditation,  or  conversation  with  intimate  friends. 

Sometimes  he  would  escape  from  the  drawing-room 
when  the  merriment  was  at  its  height,  taking  me  with 
him  to  his  room  to  smoke  a  cigar  there.  He  was  at 
such  times  gay  and  communicative,  but  with  an  under- 
current of  seriousness  ;  for  his  cold  exterior  concealed 
a  heart  capable  of  the  tenderest  friendship  This  re- 
serve kept  him  from  being  greatly  influenced  by  his  sur- 
roundings, and  while  his  fellow-aristocrats  still  cherished 
their  illusions,  more  pious  than  rational,  regarding  the 
monarchy,  he  frankly  attached  himself  to  the  republic, 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST. 


259 


serving  it  first  as  deputy,  and  afterward  brilliantly 
representing  it  as  ambassador  at  Copenhagen,  Brussels, 
and  Vienna. 

I  do  not  know  whether,  at  the  time  of  which  I 
speak,  he  had  already  begun  to  indulge  in  nobly-am- 
bitious dreams,  but  he  appeared  to  enjoy  less  than  any 
of  us  the  amusements  going  on  at  the  chateau — the 
hunts  and  pleasure  parties  which  the  brilliant  couple, 
his  brother-in-law  and  sister,  the  Duke  and  Duchess 
of  La  Tre*moille,  animated  by  their  amiable  gayety. 

I  remember  there  was  a  pretty  girl,  engaged  in  the 
vintage,  whom  the  ladies  of  the  chateau  called  Made- 
moiselle de  Bardouillant,  from  the  name  of  her  native 
hamlet. 

She  was  posing  for  me  one  day,  and  Count  Du- 
chatel  complimenting  her  on  her  beauty,  as  a  chatelaine 
of  the  neighborhood  chanced  to  be  passing  by,  the  lat- 
ter cast  a  disdainful  glance,  full  of  offensive  meaning,  at 
the  young  girl. 

When  the  lady  had  passed,  the  former  minister  of 
Louis  Philippe  whispered  to  me :  "  She  is  jealous  of 
her.  Beauty,  you  see,  constitutes  the  real  aristocracy 
among  women.*' 

Meanwhile,  during  the  whole  time  of  my  stay  at  La- 
grange,  I  had  never  ceased  for  a  moment  to  see  in  the 
distance  the  Promised  Land,  the  long  dreamed-of  south, 
and,  above  all,  Aries  ! 


LXXXIV. 

AT  last  I  saw  the  true  South !  I  fell  into  an  ecstasy 
at  the  sight  of  the  first  stunted  olive  tree  that  bent  its 
puny  branches  before  the  mistral. 


26o  THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 

I  was  so  eager  to  arrive  at  Aries  that  I  stopped  only 
at  Toulouse,  Montpellier,  and  Nimes. 

I  reached  Avignon  in  the  evening  just  as  twilight 
was  beginning  to  fall. 

In  order  to  obtain  a  general  view  of  the  city  at  once, 
I  proudly  crossed  the  Rhone,  the  Rhone  that  I  had 
never  hoped  to  see,  and  whose  course  I  had  so  many 
times  followed  on  the  map  at  school. 

The  sun  had  sunk  behind  the  terraced  hills  on  the 
right  bank  of  the  river,  diffusing  a  warm  glow  through- 
out the  atmosphere,  and  striking  with  his  fiery  arrows 
the  white  summit  of  the  Ventoux. 

The  city  was  not  yet  wrapped  in  darkness,  but,  red- 
dened by  the  warm  light  from  the  west,  quivered  in  the 
mists  that  rose  from  the  river,  like  the  steam  that  arises 
from  water  into  which  a  red-hot  iron  has  been  plunged. 

Transfigured  in  the  warm  light,  the  palace  of  the 
popes  raised  on  high  its  enormous  mass,  which  seemed 
still  larger  from  the  crenelated  forts  at  its  base.  The 
gilded  Virgin  of  the  basilica  shone  in  the  light,  and, 
higher  up,  in  the  rose-tinted  gray  sky,  the  full  moon 
glimmered  like  a  host. 

This  wonderful  picture  was  reflected  back  from  the 
bosom  of  the  sleeping  Rhone. 

Ah,  how  I  pitied  my  poor  Artois  !  "  This,"  I  cried, 
"  is  the  true  land  of  art ;  here  is  the  real  magic  of  light 
and  color !  Here  are  outlines  to  make  a  Poussin  de- 
spair !  And  to-morrow  I  shall  see  Aries." 

And  I  saw  thee,  Aries  ! 

On  that  day  the  mistral  blew  pitilessly.  The  city 
shivered  in  the  cold  and  gloomy  light.  The  Rhone  ex- 
haled fever-laden  mists. 

In  the  gray  light,  under  a  gray  sky,  the  gray  streets 
looked  grayer  still. 

My  soul  was  oppressed  by  a  melancholy  yet  more 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST.  26l 

gray.  The  women  I  met  were  ugly,  the  men  uglier  still, 
and  spleen  took  possession  of  me  in  this  tomb-like  city. 

And  I  remembered  with  regret  the  tender  green  wil- 
lows that  dipped  their  silvery  foliage  in  the  crystal 
waters  of  the  springs  of  the  Artois. 

I  returned  by  way  of  Lyon.  I  made  a  detour,  taking 
in  St.  Etienne,  where  I  had  the  joy  of  embracing  my 
youngest  brother,  Ludovic  Breton,  at  that  time  a  pupil 
in  the  Central  School  of  Arts  and  Trades,  and  lately 
chief  engineer  of  the  submarine  tunnel  of  the  British 
Channel,  a  work  which,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  has  not  been 
finally  abandoned.  The  difference  in  our  pursuits  and 
our  professions  has  always  kept  us  apart,  but  our  hearts 
have  not  for  that  reason  been  the  less  united. 

The  son  of  another  mother,  and  our  junior  by  fifteen 
or  sixteen  years,  he  had  had  no  part  in  our  childhood. 

This  happy  day,  spent  in  my  brother's  society,  in- 
creased still  more  my  desire  to  see  my  native  place 
again. 

I  traversed  Burgundy,  completely  indifferent  to  all  I 
saw. 

The  charm  was  broken.  And  then,  almost  all  the 
time  the  rain  fell  in  torrents,  casting  a  gloom  over  every- 
thing, and  I  shut  my  eyes  in  order  to  see  again  my 
native  village  and  its  pleasant  marsh,  where  the  alders 
were  bleeding  from  their  wounds. 

At  last  I  saw  again,  indeed,  its  peaceful  belfry,  tow- 
ering above  the  elms.  I  found  myself  again  alone  in 
that  vast  white  plain  where  I  had  run  about  when  a 
child. 

The  wheat  was  ripening.  Late  carnations  gently 
swayed  their  white  cups.  The  roads,  white  with  dust, 
like  the  crust  of  a  good  loaf,  wound  gracefully  through 
the  fields,  scarcely  distinguishable  in  the  distance  by  an 
exquisitely  delicate  violet  line  of  shadow.  The  short 


262  THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

grass,  soft  as  velvet,  followed  their  course.  Here  and 
there  fine  thistles  proudly  raised  their  carmine  crowns, 
or  let  their  silky  white  hair  float  on  the  evening  breeze. 

An  opal  sky,  in  which  floated  a  few  golden  clouds, 
roofed  this  sea  of  golden  grain,  carnations,  clover,  and 
grass. 

The  wide  belt  of  the  horizon  quivered  in  the  dis- 
tance, broken  by  belfry  towers,  groups  of  pale  poplars, 
and  drooping  willows. 

Never  before  had  I  so  fully  understood  the  tender- 
ness, the  peace,  and  the  humble  majesty  of  this  scene. 

Penetrated  by  it,  my  soul  was  stirred  to  its  inmost 
fibers,  a  pious  enthusiasm  moistened  my  eyes,  and  I  cried 
remorsefully,  4<  This  is  the  country  that  I  would  have 
fled  from !  " 


LXXXV. 

WHAT  remained  in  my  mind  of  all  the  keen  emotions 
awakened  in  it  by  the  scenery  of  the  South  ?  Nothing 
which  I  could  profit  by,  as  far  as  my  art  was  concerned, 
but  enough  to  make  me  admire  anew,  and  more  enthu- 
siastically than  before,  the  simple  sylvan  beauty  that 
surrounded  me. 

I  tried  in  vain  to  transfer  to  canvas  a  few  of  the  im- 
pressions received  during  this  journey,  which  I  had 
thought  at  the  time  I  experienced  them  so  fruitful.  I 
could  succeed  with  none  of  them. 

I  was  even  obliged  to  defer  my  "  Vintage  "  till  the 
following  year,  the  observations  I  had  made  of  the  sub- 
ject not  having  been  sufficiently  accurate,  owing  to  my 
poetic  enthusiasm  at  the  time. 

Travel  renews  and  refreshes  the  spirit,  but  it  is  not 
well  to  abuse  it,  following  the  example  of  those  tourists 


THE  LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST.  263 

who  glance  at  everything,  but  observe  nothing  pro- 
foundly. 

The  attraction  of  novelty,  as  we  have  seen,  may 
make  us  admire  enthusiastically  things  less  beautiful 
than  others,  which  satiety  makes  us  flee  from.  And 
then  a  first  impression  is  at  the  mercy  of  a  mood,  or 
even  of  the  state  of  the  stomach. 

Thus,  gloomy  weather,  and  perhaps  a  fit  of  indi- 
gestion, had  sufficed  to  render  me  absolutely  unjust 
toward  the  city  of  Aries,  which,  when  I  saw  it  later, 
pleased  me  greatly.  Let  us  travel,  but  let  us  have  a 
safe  retreat  in  which  to  nourish  our  thoughts. 


LXXXVI. 

IN  the  depths  of  my  hermitage,  however,  after  a  few 
months'  solitude,  I  felt  an  imperious  necessity  to  revisit 
Paris. 

Paris  is  the  ardent  generator  of  ideas,  and  the  great 
touchstone  of  merit.  A  work  of  art,  no  matter  what  its 
reputation  elsewhere,  is  always  a  little  doubtful  until  it 
has  undergone  this  test. 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  the  moment  one  sets  foot  in 
Paris  the  mind  is  enlightened. 

You  are  a  painter.  You  take  there  your  picture, 
long  thought  over  and  worked  at  in  solitude.  During 
its  execution  you  have  had  alternations  of  satisfaction 
and  of  discontent.  At  times  it  seemed  to  you  luminous 
and  splendid,  at  times  dull  and  expressionless.  Which 
is  it  in  reality? 

No  sooner  have  you  descended  from  the  railway- 
carriage  than  you  traverse  the  streets  of  Paris.  Before 


264  THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST. 

having  seen  any  one,  before  opening  the  case  which 
contains  your  painting,  you  have  already  judged  it. 

A  light  has  entered  your  mind  which  establishes  in 
your  confused  judgment  the  just  proportions  of  things. 

This  is  because  Paris  is  the  center  toward  which 
converge  all  the  currents  of  human  thought,  and  which 
is  surrounded  by  an  atmosphere  in  whose  searching  and 
impartial  light  the  Ego  is  at  once  clearly  defined  for  him 
who  knows  how  to  see. 

A  thousand  diverse  elements  flow  from  all  sides  into 
this  crucible,  which  is  constantly  in  operation,  and  in 
which  the  pure  metal  is  separated  from  the  dross. 

Elsewhere  one  observes  ;  in  Paris  one  comprehends. 
Here  no  one  loiters.  Every  one  walks  on  rapidly,  think- 
ing of  his  own  affairs.* 

It  is  a  singular  fact,  too,  that  when  I  am  in  Paris  I 
fancy  I  recognize  the  faces  of  those  I  meet  in  the  streets. 
I  do  not  experience  this  feeling  in  any  other  city.  This 
is  because  Paris  reunites  the  various  types  one  has  seen 
elsewhere,  and  which  strike  one  like  old  acquaintances, 
made  one  does  not  remember  where. 

It  will  be  seen  that  each  journey  I  made  to  Paris  was 
the  occasion  of  fresh  self-examination  and  of  useful  ob- 
servations, without  taking  into  account  the  pleasure  I 
felt  in  seeing  my  friends  again. 

*  Paris  has  sometimes  its  aberrations,  as  we  have  lately  seen, 
but  happily  they  do  not  last  long.  The  birds  of  prey  destroy  one 
another. 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST.  265 


LXXXVII. 

ONE  of  my  first  visits  on  arriving  in  Paris  was  to  the 
Boite  c*  The'. 

This  was  the  name  given  to  a  building  at  the  rear 
of  No.  70,  Rue  Notre-Dame-des-Champs,  containing  a 
dozen  studios,  and  decorated  on  the  outside  with  Chinese 
ornaments. 

There  Hamon,  Gerdme,  Toulmouche,  Schutzem- 
berger,  Biion,  and  Lauwick  worked  for  a  longer  or 
shorter  period.  My  friend  Jean  Aubert,  a  follower  of 
Hamon,  and  who  created  a  whole  mythology  of  charm- 
ing infant  gods  and  goddesses,  lived  a  few  steps  away. 

I  have  been  at  gay  banquets  with  those  excellent 
companions,  at  which  was  also  present  (and  not  always 
without  committing  some  misdemeanor)  the  monkey 
Jacques,  a  pet  of  Gerdme,  and  who  sat  at  the  table  on 
a  seat  made  like  a  child's  chair. 

I  should  like  to  speak  of  all  these  clever  artists,  but, 
with  the  exception  of  one  or  two  of  the  veterans  of  art, 
I  have  made  it  a  rule  to  speak  only  of  those  who  are  no 
longer  living. 

I  had  a  strong  affection  for  Hamon,  and  who  would 
not  have  loved  this  singularly  unaffected  man,  so  frankly 
epicurean  in  all  his  tendencies  ? 

The  name — Hamon — has  an  antique  sound. 

The  man  himself  had  something  of  the  antique  also. 
Even  his  chief  defect,  intemperance,  had  in  his  case  a 
certain  Attic  decency.  When  he  was  drunk,  his  intoxi- 
cation had  nothing  gross  in  it.  It  resembled  the  delir- 
ium inspired  by  a  nobler  passion. 

At  such  times  he  was  extremely  sentimental ;  and  I 
have  heard  that  one  day  in  the  Campagna  of  Rome,  in 
one  of  those  moments  of  Bacchic  exaltation,  after  a 


266  THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 

violent  altercation  with  a  friend,  which  on  his  side  had 
ended  in  repentance,  he  sat  down  on  a  rock  on  the 
bank  of  the  Tiber  and  let  his  tears  fall  into  the  river. 

Ingenuous  and  frank  to  excess,  he  could  not  have 
kept  a  secret,  even  if  his  life  had  depended  upon  it. 

In  the  mannerisms  of  his  style,  too,  there  is  a  great 
deal  of  natveti.  His  affectation  has  a  natural  grace. 

He  was  a  pupil  of  Gleyre,  the  father  of  the  Neo- 
Greeks. 

But  at  the  same  time  that  he  drew  his  inspiration 
from  the  ancients,  and  especially  from  Pompeii,  it  may 
be  said  that  his  style  was  that  of  Hamon ;  or,  rather,  he 
was  a  Greek  of  the  decadence  in  exile  among  us,  who 
was  born  after  his  time. 

His  simplicity  was  childlike. 

His  life  was  made  up  of  acts  of  thoughtlessness,  of 
bursts  of  tenderness,  of  little  misunderstandings,  of  dis- 
plays of  disinterested  benevolence,  and  of  that  uncon- 
scious goodness  to  which  everything  is  pardoned,  even 
neglect,  which  passes  for  absent-mindedness. 

He  had  a  momentary  triumph  with  "My  Absent 
Sister."  He  accepted  it  without  astonishment  and  with- 
out vanity,  but  he  was  more  sensitive  with  regard  to  the 
criticisms  which  were  showered  upon  him  at  a  time 
when  he  least  looked  for  them. 

He  painted  a  great  deal  at  Capri.  When  his  pictures 
were  finished  he  took  them  to  Naples,  where  he  would 
remain  a  few  weeks  to  rest ;  and  if  any  one  asked  him 
at  such  times  if  he  were  working,  he  would  answer :  "  I 
can  not  work — I  can  not  work  ;  I  am  waiting  for  the 
Americans." 

His  style  is  wanting  in  force,  but  he  has  ingenuity, 
grace,  and  genuine  tenderness.  He  is  himself.  He 
would  have  expressed  himself  in  the  same  manner  even 
if  his  subjects  had  been  different. 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST.  26/ 

This  Breton  peasant,  who  had  begun  life  as  a  farm- 
er's boy,  as  he  himself  took  pleasure  in  relating,  had 
preserved  to  some  extent  his  plebeian  appearance,  but 
he  had,  at  the  same  time,  something  of  the  air  of  an 
apostle  or  of  an  ancient  philosopher. 

He  himself  seemed  enveloped  in  the  cloudy  veil 
which  he  cast  over  his  painting. 

His  wandering  gaze  reached  one  as  if  through  a  mist. 

The  same  vagueness  seemed  to  pervade  his  conver- 
sation, which  was  full  of  unforeseen  turns,  and  of  deli- 
cate but  irrelevant  sallies  of  wit. 

His  mind  was  always  occupied  with  some  poetic 
dream,  but  he  had  no  pretension  to  profundity  of 
thought. 

Art  critics  have  striven  to  find  some  concealed  mean- 
ing, some  subtle  intention,  in  the  fantastic  picture  in 
which  Hamon  represents  the  shades  of  the  great  men 
of  antiquity  grouped  around  a  Theatre  Guignol  in  the 
Champs-Elyse'es.  I  asked  him  one  day  what  he  had 
meant  to  signify  by  this  picture.  "  Nothing,"  he  an- 
swered ;  "  I  only  imagine  that  things  took  place  in  the 
Elysian  Fields  of  the  ancients  pretty  much  as  they  do 
in  those  of  Paris." 

He  would  stop  you  in  the  midst  of  a  conversation  to 
utter,  without  rhyme  or  reason,  some  such  phrase  as 
"O!  la  la!  des  plis ! "  or,  "That  is  like  Monsieur 
Ingres." 

Monsieur  Ingres  haunted  him.  He  regretted  not 
having  gone  to  the  funeral  of  Flandrin,  in  order  to  have 
seen  Monsieur  Ingres  weep. 

Some  one  asked  him  in  my  presence  if  he  had  read 
the  "  Voyage  Autour  de  ma  Chambre." 

He  fell  into  a  revery,  remained  silent  for  a  time,  and 
then  suddenly  cried  :  "  Stay  !  What  if  I  should  make  a 
journey  around  Monsieur  Ingres?  " 


268  THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

Not  long  afterward  he  painted  "  The  Sorrowful 
Shore,"  where  the  shades  of  the  great  men  of  antiquity 
are  represented  walking  in  procession,  while  waiting  to 
cross  the  Styx,  around  Monsieur  Ingres,  who  wears  a 
mitre  on  his  head,  and  holds  in  his  hand  the  obole  des- 
tined for  Charon. 

He  did  not  copy  directly  from  nature,  but  he  went 
into  the  country  with  his  box  to  mix  his  colors,  compar- 
ing them  by  means  of  his  palette-knife  with  the  objects 
which  he  wished  to  paint. 

We  were  at  one  time  in  Brittany,  and  had  just  seen 
at  the  Pardon  those  filthy  beggars  with  their  factitious 
wounds,  whom  I  have  described.  At  the  table-d* h6te 
several  rich  Englishmen,  just  about  to  leave  the  country, 
were  chatting  together.  One  of  them  said  he  would 
take  with  him  as  a  souvenir  a  horse  ;  another  said  he 
would  take  a  cow.  Suddenly  Hamon  cried :  "  I  have 
an  idea  ;  I  will  take  with  me  a  beggar  !  " 

There  was  no  premeditation  in  these  absurd  sayings, 
which  came  as  naturally  to  him  as  his  unconscious  good- 
ness. 

One  of  his  cock-and-bull  stories  has  become  tradi- 
tional : 

Every  one  knows  that  one  of  the  first  measures  of  the 
Provisional  Government  of  1848  was  the  abolition  of 
the  crack  companies  of  the  National  Guard  and  of  bear- 
skin caps. 

Just  at  that  time,  however,  a  number  of  artists  had 
met  at  the  School  of  Fine  Arts  to  take  counsel  together, 
led  by  their  love  for  the  picturesque,  regarding  the  style 
of  head-gear  they  should  adopt  to  distinguish  them  from 
other  human  beings.  Hamon  mounted  the  platform  and 
proposed  the  bear-skin  caps,  then  out  of  use ;  and  as  this 
provoked  a  general  laugh  he  waited  until  silence  was 
restored  and  then  continued,  with  the  greatest  cool- 


THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST.  269 

ness,  "  The  bear-skin  caps,  but  —  without  the  bear- 
skin !  " 

I  should  like  to  say  a  few  words  also  regarding  my 
friend  Nazon,  whom  I  visited  often  at  that  time,  and 
who,  God  be  thanked,  is  still  in  the  enjoyment  of  good 
health  ;  but,  as  he  has  voluntarily  retired  from  the  scene 
in  which  we  thought  him  destined  to  play  an  important 
part,  and  is  now  living  in  obscurity  in  his  native  town, 
I  think  it  not  out  of  place  to  recall  him  to  the  minds  of 
those  who  knew  him. 

Nazon  (another  name  which  has  an  antique  sound) 
resembled  at  that  time  an  Etruscan,  with  his  profile 
forming  an  almost  unbroken  line,  and  his  head  covered 
with  harsh,  thick  locks  rising  above  his  forehead  like  a 
crest. 

Absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts  he  walked  along  with 
great  strides,  his  toes  slightly  turned  in,  his  chest  swell- 
ing out,  his  long  nose,  pointed  like  that  of  an  ant-eater, 
emerging  from  the  scarf  wound  about  his  neck,  as  if  to 
snuff  in  whatever  news  might  be  circulating  in  the 
air. 

For  this  excellent  companion,  who  was  so  cordial  in 
his  manners,  though  he  was  intolerant  of  everything  that 
savored  of  vulgarity,  was  an  indefatigable  talker,  and 
exceedingly  witty. 

He  had  made  a  brilliant  debut  as  a  painter.  I  re- 
member especially  a  southern  landscape  representing  a 
long  wall  with  curves  full  of  style,  against  which  leaned 
a  little  girl,  guarding  a  flock  of  turkeys — a  picture  pos- 
sessing a  powerful  charm,  of  sober  and  delicate  coloring, 
and  absolutely  original  at  the  time  of  its  appearance. 

We  expected  him  to  become  a  great  landscape-paint- 
er, and  only  to  think  that  he  should  prefer  the  retire- 
ment of  a  country  life  at  Montauban  ! 

Gustave  Brion  was  a  man  of  average  but  admirably 


2/0  THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

balanced  endowments.  He  designed  with  ease,  and  was 
well  acquainted  with  the  technic  of  his  art. 

He  was  a  big  boy,  who  greeted  his  friends  cordially 
whenever  he  met  them,  although  he  preferred  to  lead  a 
retired  life.  The  only  noise  he  made  was  when  he 
played  his  guitar,  or  when  he  drew  some  melody  from 
his  harmonium. 

He  was  a  skillful  illustrator,  and  worked  with  great 
ease  and  ingenuity. 

He  painted  a  great  variety  of  subjects,  passing  from 
Alsatian  peasants  to  the  patriarchs  of  the  Bible,  and 
from  Breton  peasants  to  the  mountebanks  of  the  middle 
ages. 

His  "  Reading  the  Bible,"  an  austere  painting  of  fine 
design,  procured  for  him  the  medal  of  honor. 

He  soon  left  the  Boite  &  Thd  for  a  house  built  for 
him  by  our  friend  Hugelin,  his  compatriot,  and  an  archi- 
tect of  a  great  deal  of  taste.  He  surrounded  himself 
there  with  curious  articles  of  bric-ci,-brac  and  rare  plants, 
spending  many  peaceful  hours  in  cultivating  the  flowers 
in  his  conservatory  and  his  little  garden,  and  drinking 
between  times  the  excellent  beer  which  he  imported 
from  Strasbourg,  his  native  place,  and  which  he  de- 
lighted to  offer  to  his  friends. 

He  ended  by  confining  himself  entirely  to  the  house, 
and  his  health  suffered  in  consequence. 

He  grew  too  stout.  His  speech,  which  had  never 
been  fluent,  finally  became  obstructed,  and  we  learned 
one  day  that  this  excellent  man  and  skillful  artist  had 
died  suddenly. 

At  the  time  of  my  acquaintance  with  him,  in  1853, 
he  occupied,  with  Schutzemberger,  a  studio  at  53  Rue 
Notre-Dame-des-Champs,  the  same  house  in  which  I 
had  lived  with  Delalleau. 

He  there  painted  his  best  pictures,  those  which  have 


THE    LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 


271 


the  most  character — "  The  Skaters  of  the  Black  Forest " 
and  "  Gathering  Potatoes  during  an  Inundation."  Schutz- 
emberger  also  painted  a  fine  picture — "Alsatian  Mowers 
at  Daybreak."  The  peasants,  it  is  evident,  were  painted 
in  the  open  air. 

Brion  obtained  a  second  medal  this  year,  as  did  also 
Millet. 

In  the  same  house  dwelt  also  Bonvin,  who  at  that 
time  painted  young  infantry  recruits. 

What  a  singular  man  this  Bonvin  was ! 

At  first  view  he  had  the  appearance  of  an  ordinary 
workman,  but  one  was  not  long  in  discovering  in  his 
eyes  and  in  his  ironical  mouth  tokens  of  an  extreme 
acuteness  of  intellect. 

He  was,  indeed,  one  of  the  wittiest  men  I  have  ever 
known,  but  his  sallies  were  not  always  altogether  harm- 
less. 

In  his  moments  of  enthusiasm  he  had  delightful  in- 
spirations. 

On  the  day  of  his  marriage  he  said  to  his  young 
bride,  at  the  end  of  the  wedding  banquet,  "  Do  not  for- 
get that  you  have  entered  a  family  honored  by  the  sword 
and  gown."  His  father  had  been  a  rustic  guard  at  Mont- 
rouge  and  his  mother  a  seamstress. 

On  another  occasion,  passing  at  the  exhibition  in 
front  of  a  picture  in  which  the  artist  had  carried  the 
tricks  of  still-life  deception  to  excess,  Bonvin  perceived 
a  goose-quill  lying  on  the  floor  and,  picking  it  up,  and 
taking  in  the  painting  with  a  rapid  glance,  he  handed 
the  feather  to  the  keeper  of  the  hall,  saying :  "  Take 
care  of  this  ;  it  must  have  fallen  from  that  picture 
there." 

On  the  day  on  which  we  celebrated  the  reception  of 
Brion's  medal  the  latter  had  drunk  so  deeply  to  his  suc- 
cess that  he  left  a  part  of  his  wits  at  the  bottom  of  his 


272  THE   LIFE  OF 'AN   ARTIST. 

glass.  Bonvin  teased  him,  saying  to  him  in  portentous 
accents  :  u  Distrust  yourself  !  Don't  be  too  sure  of  your 
success ! "  Then  he  took  the  last  gold  piece  from 
Brion's  waistcoat-pocket.  The  latter,  beginning  to  be 
weary  of  this  pleasantry,  grew  angry,  and  Bonvin,  wav- 
ing the  louis  d'or  under  his  nose,  said  to  him  :  "  You 
are  all  right,  you  have  your  friends  to  fall  back  upon  ; 
but  what  is  to  become  of  poor  me,  who  have  taken  the 
last  twenty-franc  piece  you  had  in  your  pocket  from 
you  ? " 

Such  are  the  recollections  I  retain  of  Bonvin,  that 
gifted  artist,  that  Gaul  who  spent  his  life  in  studying 
the  old  Flemish  painters,  whose  delicacy,  it  must  be 
confessed,  he  did  not  succeed  in  imitating.  Nor  did  he 
succeed  better  with  his  copies  of  Lenain,  whose  vigorous 
firmness  of  touch  he  did  not  possess. 

At  that  period  I  saw  again,  too,  my  old  fellow- 
students  of  the  Studio  Drolling,  some  of  whom,  follow- 
ing the  example  of  Baudry,  had  begun  to  make  a  name 
for  themselves  at  the  annual  exhibitions. 

Among  these  was  poor  Marchal,  the  gay  jester,  the 
friend  of  the  most  brilliant  writers  of  the  time,  whom  he 
entertained  by  his  inexhaustible  spirits  and  his  bonmots. 
What  delicate  good-nature  !  What  cordial  effusiveness 
of  manner  !  How  did  this  artist,  who  dissipated  his 
energies  in  so  many  ways,  still  find  time  and  strength  to 
paint?  He  painted,  however,  and  he  brought  to  his 
work,  it  must  be  acknowledged,  true  conscientiousness, 
especially  at  the  beginning  of  his  career.  I  have  wit- 
nessed many  of  his  valiant  efforts. 

Unhappily,  this  witty  conversationalist,  who  was  so 
original  in  his  amusing  paradoxes,  could  never  rid  him- 
self, in  his  painting,  of  a  sort  of  bourgeois  taste. 

Influenced  by  friendship,  the  critics  of  his  acquaint- 
ance took  no  notice  of  this  defect,  and,  instead  of  point- 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST. 


273 


ing  it  out  to  him,  praised  greatly  certain  pictures  of  his 
which  were  full  of  didactic  and  commonplace  sentimen- 
tality— enthusiastic  eulogies  which  they  redoubled  in  the 
case  of  his  picture  "  Penelope  and  Phryne." 

"  I  think  they  must  be  all  crazy,"  he  said  to  me  on 
this  occasion.  "  Imagine  that  I  have  received  more 
than  eighty  letters  full  of  enthusiastic  congratulations !  " 

I  remember,  in  fact,  that  this  sentimental  picture 
was  received  with  universal  acclamation  by  the  press. 
The  Sheep  of  Panurge,  you  know. 

The  reaction  was  terrible.  Two  or  three  years  later 
the  career  of  poor  Marchal  was  ended,  a  result  brought 
about  by  the  very  exaggeration  of  his  success.  The 
public  grew  tired  of  him.  There  were  no  more  pur- 
chases for  his  pictures. 

He  resorted  then  to  repetitions  of  those  of  his  pict- 
ures which  had  formerly  been  successful. 

Pecuniary  embarrassment  came. 

One  day  Marchal  was  found,  dressed  in  irreproach- 
able evening  costume,  lifeless  upon  his  bed.  He  had 
killed  himself,  having  even  in  this  last  fatal^act  paid  due 
regard  to  the  proprieties,  as  was  becoming  to  a  gentle- 
man. 

Happily  for  his  memory,  he  left  behind  him  two 
meritorious  pictures,  the  "  Choral  of  Luther  "  and  the 
"  Servants'  Fair." 


LXXXVIII. 

I  LIKED  to  mount  the  long  stairs  that  led  to  the 
studio  of  Feyen-Perrin  in  the  Rue  Mazarine ;  for  I  saw, 
each  time  with  renewed  pleasure,  this  good  friend,  who 
was  a  painter  of  a  vivid,  fertile,  and  poetic  imagina- 
tion. 

18 


274  THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

I  have  dwelt  elsewhere  upon  his  personal  beauty  and 
his  ardent  devotion  to  study. 

He  had  come  from  the  borders  of  the  Moselle,  a 
charming  river  which  washes  away  in  places  its  banks, 
like  those  of  the  Tiber,  flowing  through  a  country  that 
recalls,  at  a  distance,  the  Campagna  of  Rome.  He  had 
there  mingled  the  intoxication  of  his  youthful  passions 
with  the  delight  produced  in  his  soul  by  the  spectacle 
of  Nature.  He  still  kept  the  ardent  enthusiasm  and  the 
dreamy  melancholy  of  that  time.  His  art  was  imbued 
with  them. 

The  long  line  of  his  beautiful  girls  will  be  remem- 
bered, their  silhouettes  defined  against  the  sea-mist 
or  bathed  in  the  violet  or  saffron  vapors  of  twilight. 
Nor  have  we  forgotten  his  beautiful  nude  women,  his 
"Snake"  and  his  "Milky  Way,"  in  which,  notwith- 
standing the  malady  that  was  undermining  his  health, 
he  showed  constant  progress,  proving  that  he  was  far 
from  having  produced  the  best  work  of  which  he  was 
capable. 

At  one  tjme  I  met  him  frequently  with  his  brother 
and  earliest  master,  Eugene  Feyen,  in  the  Alsatian 
brewery  of  the  Rue  Jacob. 

The  last  days  of  the  empire  were  at  hand. 

I  shall  not  mention  all  the  persons  distinguished  for 
their  intelligence  who  came  to  occupy  the  benches  of 
this  brewery,  a  center  of  friendly  reunion  where  dis- 
cussions on  art  were  prolonged  far  into  the  night. 

The  new-comers  seated  themselves  at  first  on  the 
little  table  near  the  door,  gradually  approached  us,  and, 
if  they  were  presented,  ended  by  joining  us. 

More  than  one  distinguished  character  of  the  pres- 
ent day  made  that  little  table  the  starting-point  in  his 
career  ;  in  particular,  the  young  and  eloquent  advocate, 
who  soon  seemed  to  be  making  ready,  in  our  little 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST. 


275 


csenaculum,  for  future  contests  in  the  tribune  to  which 
he  was  to  be  called. 

He  pronounced  before  us,  among  other  discourses, 
a  magnificent  speech  on  the  day  on  which  we  learned 
of  the  death  of  Maximilian,  the  Emperor  of  Mexico ; 
and  which,  in  an  apostrophe  to  Napoleon  III,  ended 
with  these  words  :  "  That  will  be  your  Waterloo !  " 

This  young  advocate,  this  ardent  patriot  and  earnest 
democrat,  was  the  bearer  of  a  very  obscure  name,  Le"on 
Gambetta. 

Assuredly  he  did  not  dream  at  that  time  of  the 
glorious  monument  of  the  Place  du  Carrousel. 

In  1875,  when  he  was  at  the  height  of  his  fame,  as  I 
was  recalling  to  him  one  day,  while  he  was  smoking  his 
after-dinner  cigar,  those  hours  spent  at  the  brewery,  he 
cried  :  "  Good  heavens !  how  many  times  have  I  been 
reproached  with  them  !  " 

Here,  too,  used  to  come  the  delightful  humorist 
Toussenel;  the  young  poet  Pierre  Dupont;  Achard,  a 
cross-grained  but  good-natured  old  fellow,  one  of  the 
earliest  of  our  landscape-painters,  and  so  conscientious 
in  his  art  that  he  worked  for  three  years  at  the  same 
picture,  painted  from  nature,  and  was  in  despair  when 
he  found,  on  returning  to  his  subject  the  following 
spring,  that  an  umbelliferous  plant,  frozen  during  the 
winter,  had  not  sprouted  again.  Then  there  were  Jules 
Hereau,  who  was  soon  to  meet  with  a  tragic  death,  be- 
fore he  had  succeeded  in  accomplishing  all  he  was  capa- 
ble of ;  and  Blin,  on  whom  we  had  founded  so  many 
hopes,  but  who  died  young,  just  after  he  had  painted 
his  masterpiece — a  masterpiece  indeed  ! 

The  Emperor  Maximilian  had  bought  from  him  this 
painting,  which  represented  a  lake,  on  whose  bosom 
glided  a  bark  among  reeds  and  rushes,  and  which  re- 
flected back  the  sky — a  marvel  of  pearly  transparency. 


276  THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

Blin  had  given  proof  of  fine  qualities  in  several  of 
his  works,  but  this  one  seemed  to  us  so  superior  to  all 
the  others  that  it  was  like  a  revelation. 

Unfortunately,  this  picture  was  destroyed  at  the 
time  of  the  devastation  of  the  palace  of  the  unfortunate 
Maximilian. 

Poor  Blin  !  On  that  day  you  died  for  the  second 
time  ! 

Among  our  friends  of  the  brewery  was  also  the  ec- 
centric Gustave  Dore",  that  artist  whose  wonderfully 
luxuriant  and  fantastic  imagination  was  like  a  magical 
forest  haunted  by  marvelous  apparitions. 

When  he  ought  to  have  been  enjoying  tranquilly  the 
brilliant  success  of  his  crayons  he  was  to  be  seen  always 
preoccupied  and  often  sad,  though  he  would  at  times 
suddenly  break  out  into  fits  of  gayety,  like  a  schoolboy 
let  loose  from  school,  doubtless  seeking  in  this  way  to 
deaden  thought,  for  this  fertile  and  inexhaustible  de- 
signer suffered  during  his  whole  career  from  an  open 
wound,  which  probably  caused  his  death — the  chagrin 
of  seeing  his  fellow-artists  pass  with  indifference  before 
his  immense  canvases,  on  which  he  had  placed  all  his 
hopes,  but  which  were  in  a  style  of  art  for  which  his 
genius  was  not  adapted. 

A  great  many  others  came  to  our  reunions  in  the 
Rue  Jacob — Nazon,  Gattineau,  our  dear  and  charming 
Armand  Silvestre,  and  the  sculptor  Carpeaux,  who  gave 
promise  of  rivaling  Pu^et,  a  rude  carver  of  stone,  exiled 
in  the  midst  of  the  luxuries  to  which  an  aristocratic 
marriage  had  raised  him  ;  Carpeaux,  the  famous  author 
of  "  Flora  "  and  "  Ugolino,"  and  whose  obsequies  Valen- 
ciennes celebrated  with  regal  magnificence. 


THE   LIFE   OF   AN  ARTIST. 


LXXXIX. 


277 


BUT,  among  all  the  pupils  of  Drolling,  Gustave  Jundt 
was  the  one  whom  I  most  loved.  He  it  was  to  whom  I 
always  paid  my  first  visit. 

In  his  studio  in  the  Rue  d'Assas  were  heaped  up,  in 
picturesque  confusion,  a  multitude  of  objects  and  cos- 
tumes of  the  peasantry  of  the  different  countries  where 
he  had  made  studies — Alsace,  the  Black  Forest,  Brittany, 
and  Auvergne  —  the  latter  hanging  out  of  half-open 
trunks,  the  former  heaped  up  in  dusty  corners  among 
canvases,  palettes,  enormous  pipes,  and  newspapers.  On 
a  table  was  a  mountain  of  letters,  his  entire  correspond- 
ence during  the  past  ten  years,  and  a  heap  of  old  tubes 
which  had  been  emptied  and  twisted  up. 

In  the  mornings  I  would  find  him  still  in  bed  in  his 
little  room,  smoking  his  large  cherry-wood  pipe,  and 
looking  over  the  newspaper. 

On  seeing  me  he  would  utter  a  joyful  exclamation, 
half  rising  up  in  bed,  and  repressing,  at  times,  the  ex- 
pression of  pain,  caused  by  a  sudden  twinge  of  his  rheu- 
matism, which,  however,  took  nothing  from  the  effusive- 
ness of  his  joyous  welcome. 

No  sooner  was  he  out  of  bed  than  he  would  go,  often 
before  he  was  fully  dressed,  to  the  piano,  to  limber  his 
gouty  fingers,  singing  or  whistling  to  its  accompaniment, 
and  abandoning  himself  to  the  genuine  musical  inspira- 
tions that  came  into  his  head — reminiscences  or  improvi- 
sations, on  which  he  bestowed  a  delightful  charm. 

He  would  begin  spiritedly,  to  give  vent  to  his  gayety, 
and  then,  yielding  himself  up  to  the  delightful  melodies 
that  seemed  to  float  around  him,  his  voice  would  assume 
accents  so  tender  that  I  have  never  heard  any  virtuoso 
who  delighted  me  so  much. 


278 


THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 


Then  he  would  place  his  pictures  on  the  easel  to 
show  them  to  me,  and  it  was  necessary  to  be  very  cautious 
in  giving  an  opinion  of  them,  for  each  new  counsel  was 
immediately  followed,  at  the  risk  of  destroying  in  a  mo- 
ment the  labor  of  a  week.  One  should  see  with  what 
rash  haste  he  dipped  his  rag  in  the  essence  and  rubbed 
his  canvas  with  it,  scraping  off  the  color  with  his  palette- 
knife,  demolishing  and  reconstructing  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye ! 

For  those  who  saw  him  only  in  public,  Jundt  was 
nothing  more  than  a  gay  viveur,  with  a  heart  as  warm  as 
the  color  of  his  long  locks  and  his  beard,  whose  bright 
gold  seemed  to  reflect  the  sunshine.  He  was  perpetual- 
ly' laughing — a  frank,  good-humored,  and  irresistibly 
contagious  laugh. 

He  made  the  most  daring  accusations,  in  which  he 
always  seemed  to  have  right  on  his  side,  with  impertur- 
bable self-possession.  Some  of  these  are  still  remem- 
bered. 

He  had  an  iron  constitution  and  a  prodigious  appe- 
tite ;  he  had  a  tendency  to  embonpoint,  and,  although 
he  limped  on  account  of  his  gout,  his  gait  was  full  of 
aristocratic  grace.  His  whole  being  radiated  an  inalter- 
able gayety. 

There  was  in  him  a  blending  of  the  faun  and  the 
grand  seignior. 

But  what  a  heart  of  gold  for  those  who  enjoyed  his 
friendship  !  How  much  tenderness  of  soul  and  true 
genius  this  wild  gayety  concealed  ! 

I  fancy  I  can  see  him  now  as  I  saw  him  five  or  six 
summers  ago,  toward  the  close  of  his  life,  at  our  reunions 
in  Montgeron  at  the  house  of  my  children. 

We  would  go  to  meet  him.  He  would  come  toward 
us,  limping  with  his  gout  and  leaning  on  his  cane,  an- 
nouncing himself  from  a  distance  by  some  Homeric  ex- 


.X 

THE  LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 


279 


clamation  of  boisterous  joy,  along  a  little  path  bordered 
by  the  innumerable  flowers  with  which  he  loved  to 
enamel  the  turf  of  his  sunny  pictures,  and  which  he  let 
fall  with  so  light  a  touch,  and  whose  stems  he  would 
scratch  in  skillfully  with  the  handle  of  his  brush,  all  the 
time  humming  snatches  of  some  melody. 

The  cloudless  sky,  the  greenery,  and  the  flowers,  all 
these  served  to  augment  his  joy,  which  would  bubble 
over  in  childlike  ebullitions  of  gayety. 

And  then,  when  he  executed  his  grand  morning 
symphony ! 

He  would  begin  by  some  rural  prelude,  imitating  the 
bleating  of  the  sheep  and  the  tinkling  of  the  sheep-bells, 
and,  to  this  accompaniment,  would  follow  all  the  sounds 
of  rural  life — faint  and  distant  lowings,  loud  neighings, 
cackling  of  geese,  crowing  of  cocks,  clucking  of  hens, 
yelping  of  dogs,  braying  of  donkeys — all  rendered  with 
perfect  truth  to  nature,  and  an  indescribable  accentua- 
tion which  elevated  this  mimicry  to  the  dignity  of  an  art. 

And  one  could  fancy  one's  self  drinking  in  the  morn- 
ing mists,  inhaling  the  perfume  of  the  new-mown  hay 
and  the  odor  of  the  dung-hill,  and  the  rustic  picture 
presented  itself  in  life-like  colors  to  the  imagination. 

One  day  when  he  was  to  dine  at  Montgeron  with 
Lemoyne,  that  landscape-painter  of  the  pen,  Heredia, 
the  prince  of  sonnetteers,  and  the  celebrated  Leconte 
de  Lisle,  Jundt  took  it  into  his  head  on  the  way  to  write 
some  crambo  verses,  absolutely  idiotic  in  themselves^  but 
composed  of  impassioned  or  Scriptural  words,  such  as 
love,  flame,  sobs,  tears,  Zion,  Jerusalem,  and  the  like. 

As  he  gave  them  to  me  to  read,  I  looked  at  them  in 
consternation,  asking  myself  if  he  were  crazy. 

"  You  -do  not  appear  to  comprehend  the  beauty  of 
those  verses,"  he  said  to  me,  "  but  you  will  see  by  and 
by,  after  dinner." 


2So  THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

And  after  dinner,  in  effect,  he  improvised  on  the 
piano,  in  a  burst  of  inspiration,  a  delightful  melody, 
which  he  accompanied  with  charming  chords  on  those 
absurd  words. 

And  Leconte  de  Lisle  cried  out,  enchanted,  "  Non- 
sense verses  are  decidedly  the  best  for  music." 

Fine  verses,  being  themselves  divine  music,  stand  in 
no  need  of  any  other. 

In  this  way  Jundt  flung  about  at  random  the  most 
precious  natural  gifts. 

And  yet  he  could  never  succeed  in  bringing  to  per- 
fection those  qualities  which  would  have  made  him 
famous  as  a  painter. 

With  more  precision,  more  correctness  in  drawing, 
and,  had  it  not  been  for  that  modest  distrust  in  himself 
which  made  him  rub  out  and  begin  over  again  twenty 
times  the  same  picture,  he  would  have  been  a  great 
artist. 

But,  notwithstanding  everything,  what  ravishing  crea- 
tions sprang  to  life  under  his  incorrect  touch ! 

In  his  "  Islets  of  the  Rhine,"  what  charming  yellow 
reeds  bend  over  the  clear  waters,  parted  by  the  fingers 
of  shadowy  and  evanescent  naiads,  that  gleam  with  sil- 
very lights  ! 

And  his  tender  Marguerite,  who,  when  the  uncertain 
light  of  dawn  opens  the  petals  of  her  little  sisters  of  the 
field,  braids  her  golden  locks  over  the  water  of  a  spring 
in  the  hollow  trunk  of  a  tree,  reviving  a  symbol  which 
had  seemed  hopelessly  hackneyed. 

And  the  white  light  of  morning  which  glimmers  over 
the  tender  spring  verdure  and  the  quivering  mists,  who, 
O  sunny-haired  friend — save  the  divine  Corot — could 
better  than  thou  have  interpreted  their  intoxicating 
sweetness  ! 

All  this  gayety  concealed  suffering,  perhaps  despair, 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST.  28l 

not  dreamed  of  by  his  most  intimate  friends,  not  even 
by  his  devoted  brother  Theodore  Jundt,  an  engineer  at 
Belfort,  who,  though  more  serious  than  Gustave,  reminds 
us  of  him — physical  pain,  cruel  disillusions,  his  patiiotic 
anguish  as  an  Alsatian,  for  he  could  never  be  consoled 
for  his  lost  country. 

All  his  friends  will  remember  the  spiteful  caricatures 
with  which  he  covered  a  series  of  panels,  on  one  of 
which  was  represented  an  imposing  effigy  made  up  of 
slices  of  bacon,  black-pudding  and  sausages,  as  well  as 
that  panorama  of  Alsace,  with  which  he  ferminated  the 
sketch  so  fondly  dreamed  of  ! 

No  anguish  can  compare  with  that  experienced  by 
those  wildly  gay  natures  when  misfortune  overtakes 
them  ! 

One  morning  Paris  was  shocked  by  the  news  of  his 
tragic  death,  as  it  had  before  been  shocked  by  the  news 
of  the  death  of  Marchal,  that  other  Alsatian  and  fellow- 
student  of  Jundt. 


XC. 

OTHER  friends,  venerable  ones,  attracted  me  also. 
I  refer  to  the  old  masters  who  repose  in  the  Louvre. 

Their  calm  and  assured  fame  is  beyond  the  reach  of 
the  vicissitudes  to  which  ours  is  subject,  and,  in  the 
midst  of  the  preoccupations  which  excite  and  fatigue 
our  nerves,  it  is  well  from  time  to  time  to  contemplate 
them  and  to  question  them. 

I  never  cross  the  threshold  of  our  museum  without 
experiencing  a  reverential  emotion. 

I  know  this  museum  almost  by  heart,  and  yet  it 
offers  at  each  new  visit  a  fresh  field  of  observation. 

The  impressions  of  art  are  subject  to  so  many  subtle 


282  THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 

influences,  that,  according  to  what  he  has  just  seen  or 
studied,  the  admiration  of  the  artist  is  modified,  if  not 
in  its  intensity  at  least  in  its  direction. 

On  one  day  I  am  more  affected  by  the  naive  fervor 
of  Gothic  art,  on  another  by  the  pomp  of  the  Renais- 
sance, or  by  the  touching  homeliness  of  the  Dutch 
school.  But  there  are  certain  masterpieces  which,  for 
me,  are  placed  beyond  the  fluctuations  of  judgment  or 
of  feeling. 

I  have  made  of  these  chosen  masterpieces  my  bright- 
est constellation  in  the  heaven  of  the  ideal. 

I  should  place,  perhaps,  at  their  head,  the  Sistine 
Chapel  and  the  divine  marbles  of  Phidias,  which,  when 
I  saw  them  in  London,  moved  me  to  tears  ;  but  these 
I  have  seen  only  once. 

The  works  which  I  can  see  often,  and  of  which  I 
can  speak  with  more  certainty,  are  the  "  Saint  Anne  "  of 
Leonardo  da  Vinci,  the  "  Pilgrims  of  Emmaiis "  of 
Rembrandt,  and  the  last  picture  of  Poussin,  "Apollo 
and  Daphne,"  in  the  Louvre;  the  little  "Waxen  Head  " 
at  Lille;  and  the  "Vocation  of  Saint  Bavon"  of  Ru- 
bens, at  Ghent. 

I  do  not  think  art  has  ever  produced  anything  more 
touching  than  the  head  of  the  "  Saint  Anne  "  of  Leo- 
nardo da  Vinci.  No  artist  has  every  joined  more  pro- 
found feeling  with  greater  correctness  of  design.  It  is 
ideal  sweetness  expressed  with  ideal  force.  Nothing 
there  is  due  to  chance  ;  everything  is  predetermined, 
but  each  detail  is  rendered  subordinate  to  the  expres- 
sion of  the  whole  in  a  half-tint  more  resplendent  than 
crude  light.  It  trembles  and  glows  with  the  radiance  of 
the  soul.  It  is  clothed  with  a  divine  and  supernatural 
brightness.  It  is  the  transfiguration  of  matter  ! 

I  love  this  Leonardo  with  all  the  fervor  of  an  artist's 
soul. 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 


283 


May  not  the  adorable  "  Waxen  Head  "  in  the  Muse- 
um of  Lille,  that  young  virgin,  the  wondrous  work  of 
an  unknown  hand,  be  by  Leonardo  also?  There  is 
nothing  to  be  compared  to  the  pensive  innocence  of 
this  white  lily !  How  many  times  has  the  pure  glance 
of  her  melancholy  eyes  come  to  haunt  me  in  my  soli- 
tude ! 

It  is  difficult  to  believe  that,  in  these  days,  when 
travel  is  so  easy,  there  could  be  in  the  superb  cathedral 
of  an  important  city  an  almost  unknown  masterpiece,  in 
in  my  opinion  the  finest  picture  of  one  of  the  greatest 
painters.  Yet  so  it  is  in  the  case  of  the  "Vocation  of 
Saint  Bavon  "  of  Rubens. 

And,  what  renders  this  obscurity  still  more  extraor- 
dinary, is  the  fact  that  there  is  in  a  chapel  of  the  same 
cathedral  an  extremely  well-known  work,  the  "  Paschal 
Lamb  "  of  Van  Eyck. 

Clad  in  rich  armor,  and  wearing  a  long  purple  man- 
tle which  is  held  up  behind  by  a  page,  Saint  Bavon  is 
represented  kneeling,  surrounded  by  his  court,  on  a 
massive  staircase  which  leads  to  the  porch  of  a  convent. 

Between  the  columns  of  this  porch  bishops  in  their 
episcopal  robes  of  state  incline  themselves  toward  him, 
extending  their  hands  to  receive  him. 

The  lower  part  of  the  staircase  is  occupied  by  beg- 
gars, among  whom  attendants  are  distributing  the  pos- 
sessions of  the  saint.  They  look  like  a  pack  of  hounds 
throwing  themselves  on  the  quarry.  There  are  among 
them  emaciated  old  men,  boys  in  rags,  and  two  superb 
beggar-women,  of  whom  one,  with  uncovered  bosom, 
discloses  to  view,  as  she  rushes  forward,  two  infants, 
whom  she  holds  in  her  powerful  arms. 

To  the  left,  near  the  frame,  two  noble  ladies,  the 
most  ideal  creations  of  the  painter,  of  a  pure  and  ele- 
vated type  of  beauty,  are  looking  with  emotion  at  the 


284  THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

saint  who  is  making  the  sacrifice  of  all  his  earthly 
splendor. 

All  the  figures  in  this  composition  are  grouped  with 
perfect  skill  and  naturalness.  Its  coloring  is  incom- 
parably rich  and  sober. 

Here  are  none  of  those  timid  muscles  which,  in  the 
shadows,  look  like  raw  flesh  ;  none  of  those  crude  blues 
and  reds  that  we  see  in  the  u  Virgin  with  the  Parrot " 
and  the  "  Lance-Thrust "  ;  none  of  the  porcelain  tints 
of  the  "  Christ  on  the  Straw "  and  the  "  Unbelief  of 
Saint  Thomas  "  ;  nothing  of  the  vulgarity  of  the  fore- 
shortened "Dead  Christ."  Here  all  is  life-like  and 
natural,  and  beauty  reigns  supreme. 

The  coloring  of  a  slightly  amber  tint  is  of  the  same 
quality  as  that  of  another  admirable  though  much  less 
important  masterpiece  of  the  same  artist ;  I  refer  to  the 
painting  of  Saint  George,  which  adorns  the  tomb  of 
the  great  genius  of  Antwerp,  in  the  church  of  Saint 
Jacques. 

There  are  in  it  the  same  warm  and  pearly  flesh- 
tints,  the  same  powerful  harmonies  in  yellow.  But, 
indeed,  when  Rubens  paints  with  delicacy  he  has  no 
rival. 

As  for  the  "  Pilgrims  of  Emmaiis  "  of  Rembrandt, 
it  is  the  goal  of  my  pious  pilgrimages  whenever  I  can 
make  them,  and  I  never  weary  of  contemplating  it. 

By  what  miracle  does  this  "  Christ,"  which,  accord- 
ing to  conventional  rules,  is  not  beautiful,  awaken  in 
the  mind  the  highest  and  holiest  thoughts  ?  Whence 
comes  the  irresistible  charm  breathed  by  this  face 
crowned  by  its  mild  and  mysterious  halo  ?  As  in  the 
presence  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  we  here  feel  ourselves 
under  the  spell  of  a  supernatural  irradiation. 

To  learn  its  secret,  it  would  be  necessary  to  read  the 
soul  of  Rembrandt. 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 


285 


For,  however  inexplicable  may  be  the  attraction  of 
this  work,  we  feel  that  it  is  the  radiation  of  a  pure 
thought ;  it  gives  proof  of  the  supremacy  of  human 
genius  over  the  rest  of  the  creation ;  it  confutes  those 
materialists  who  would  debase  that  gsnius  to  the  level 
of  the  blind  instinct  of  the  brute. 

But  if  the  chief  fascination  of  this  masterpiece,  the 
inspiration  which  it  breathes,  escapes  our  limited  meth- 
ods of  analysis,  what  we  can  estimate  in  it  is  the  superior 
harmony  of  the  values  and  the  tones,  the  pious  attention 
of  the  attitudes,  and  the  magic  of  the  chiaroscuro.  Rem- 
brandt has  created  nothing  more  softly  intense. 

And,  a  consoling  fact  for  those  among  us  who  are 
growing  old,  when  we  consider  the  work  of  the  great 
masters,  we  find  that  their  latest  manner  is  their  best. 

This  is  true  of  Michael  Angelo,  Rubens,  Leonardo 
da  Vinci,  Rembrandt,  Poussin,  and  many  others. 

Contrariwise  to  what  the  Greeks  used  to  say  of  their 
heroes,  "  Happy  they  who  die  young,  and  in  full  pos- 
session of  their  physical  beauty  !  "  we  may  say,  of  artists 
especially,  "  Happy  they  who  die  old,  in  the  plenitude 
of  their  mental  faculties  !  "  They  alone  reach  that  full 
maturity  of  the  powers  when,  having  mastered  the 
technic  of  their  art,  and  freed  themselves  from  preju- 
dices and  from  vulgar  passions,  they  see  only  the  su- 
preme expression  of  things.  There  is  no  trace  of  effort 
in  their  work ;  the  means  employed  disappear,  and  the 
hand  may  tremble  with  impunity  under  the  superior 
charm  which  it  confers. 

For  the  young,  new  efforts,  dangerous  exaltations, 
dazzling  triumphs,  and  resounding  defeats,  disillusions, 
prodigality,  daring  experiments,  and  the  noisy  trum- 
peting of  new  reputations  !  For  the  old  who  have  re- 
tained their  vigor,  the  free  and  radiant  flow  of  sublime 
inspirations  concealing  profound  knowledge,  the  more 


286  THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

profound  the  more  it  is  concealed.  For  the  old,  serene 
visions  freed  from  earthly  trammels. 

I  have  just  spoken  of  Poussin.  Well,  compare  with 
the  "  Rape  of  the  Sabines,"  and  other  pompous  paint- 
ings of  his  youth,  the  "  Grapes  of  the  Promised  Land," 
the  "  Episode  of  Ruth  and  Boaz,"  and,  above  all,  the 
last  and  best  of  his  pictures,  "  Apollo  and  Daphne," 
which  he  left  unfinished,  and  in  which  his  failing  fingers 
were  the  interpreters  of  one  of  the  highest  visions  of 
art. 

Oh,  you  who  affirm  that  the  ideal  does  not  exist, 
how  describe  the  celestial  atmosphere  which  bathes  this 
old  man's  dream,  the  august  beauty  of  this  epopoeia,  at 
once  Olympian  and  pastoral,  and  the  episodes  which  it 
unfolds  ? 

Look  at  this  picture,  and  say  whether  art  has  made 
much  progress  since  it  was  painted. 

In  the  deep  blue  sky  float  soft  pearl-gray  clouds, 
charmingly  rose-tinted,  beautifully  rounded  in  form, 
and  pierced  here  and  there  by  golden  gleams,  which 
gather,  seeming  charged  with  electricity,  on  the  distant 
peak  that,  behind  an  azure  lake,  bounds  the  horizon. 

In  the  warm,  humid  atmosphere  of  this  rich  back- 
ground, majestic  trees,  rooted  among  sharply  outlined 
rocks,  spread  their  fan-like  foliage. 

To  the  left,  a  nymph,  enveloped  in  a  yellow  drapery, 
swings,  half-reclining,  among  the  branches;  another 
nymph,  crowned  with  oak-leaves,  is  seated  at  her  feet, 
clasping  with  interlaced  fingers,  the  branch  of  a  tree. 

A  little  below  Apollo  is  looking  at  Daphne,  whose 
nude  figure  is  seen  surrounded  by  nymphs,  also  nude, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  composition.  Near  Apollo  a 
little  Cupid,  bow  and  arrow  in  hand,  is  taking  aim  at 
her. 

Various  figures  are  seated  or  recline  in  the  fore- 


THE  LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 


287 


ground  in  attitudes  of  repose.  A  wide  space  affords 
rest  to  the  eye  in  the  midst  of  these  groups,  whose  un- 
dulating lines  lead  the  glance  of  the  spectator  to  the 
left  toward  Apollo,  and  to  the  right  toward  Daphne. 

The  background  of  the  picture  is  occupied  by  shep- 
herds, dogs,  and  a  herd  of  oxen,  whose  backs  form  a 
straight  line,  full  of  style. 

How  intense,  peaceful,  warm,  and  tender  is  the 
whole  composition  ! 

A  soft  light  gilds  the  distances  and  the  nymph  seated 
on  the  grass,  while  the  rest  of  the  picture  is  in  a  half- 
shadow  of  exquisite  transparency. 

In  this  painting  the  contours  and  the  colors,  at  once 
sublime  and  familiar,  are  so  naturally  graded,  so  enchant- 
ingly  harmonized,  that  the  eye,  deceived  by  the  charm, 
fancies  it  perceives  in  it  a  sort  of  palpitation,  I  might 
almost  say  a  divine  breathing  !  This  palpitation,  this 
breathing,  this  supernatural  life,  produced  by  the  perfect 
equilibrium  of  the  parts  forming  a  complete  whole,  is  not 
this  the  infallible  sign  of  a  genuine  masterpiece? 


XCI. 

IT  will  be  seen  how  great  an  attraction  Paris  pos- 
sessed for  me,  since  it  brought  me  in  frequent  contact 
with  friends  such  as  those  I  have  just  described. 

But,  if  it  is  unwise  to  remain  long  away  from  Paris, 
it  is  not  well,  on  the  other  hand,  to  live  there  constantly. 

Do  not  the  continual  opportunities  offered  by  the 
great  city  for  the  interchange  of  ideas  interfere  with 
their  complete  assimilation  ?  Do  not  those  constant  con- 
versations, in  which  each  one  shines  or  seeks  to  shine, 
occasion  a  useless  expenditure  of  energy  ? 


288  THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST. 

Might  not  the  ardor  dissipated  in  often  sterile  words, 
if  concentrated  and  employed  in  work,  produce  more 
serious  results  ? 

Thoughts,  to  prove  fertile,  require  to  be  concentrated, 
and  not  scattered  to  the  winds.  Condensation  increases 
their  force  a  hundred-fold. 

The  boulevard  alone  can  develop  that  brilliant  but 
superficial  faculty  which  we  call  esprit,  but  the  ambition 
of  the  artist  should  go  further  than  this.  Without  the 
prudence  of  the  fox,  it  may  be  said  that  esprit  is  danger- 
ous in  art. 

I  am  of  the  opinion  that  historical  painters  would 
gain  greatly  by  living  occasionally  in  the  country,  in  the 
midst  of  the  primitive  inhabitants.  I  think  by  doing  so 
they  would  often  obtain  an  insight  into  past  ages,  for,  to 
my  mind,  in  order  to  make  past  ages  live  upon  the  can- 
vas, something  more  is  needed  than  to  rummage  among 
heaps  of  documents  and  sneeze  among  the  dust  of  old 
papers. 


XCII. 

EMERGING  from  the  whirlpool  of  Paris  I  experienced, 
every  time  I  returned  to  Courrieres,  the  supreme  delight 
of  the  intense  peace  of  the  country,  and  enjoyed  the 
solitary  walks  in  which  I  could  again  follow  the  changes 
of  Nature,  and  study  their  causes  in  simple  subjects,  in 
which  are  more  plainly  manifested  her  great  and  im- 
mutable laws. 

At  such  times  the  thousand  problems  discussed  in 
Paris  with  my  fellow-artists  returned  to  my  mind.  They 
presented  themselves  to  my  reason  more  clearly  in  this 
solitude,  and  I  sought  then  to  solve  them. 

Perhaps  I  would  have  done  better  to  follow  my  natu- 


THE    LIFE    OF   AN   ARTIST. 


289 


ral  bent,  without  any  other  care  than  that  of  seeking  to 
attain  the  ideal  I  had  formed,  without  vain  longings  or 
too  exalted  an  ambition. 

This  is  what  I  had  done,  without  suspecting  it,  when 
1  painted  my  first  pictures  at  Courrieres ;  this  is  what  I 
strive  to  do,  less  unconsciously,  now. 

But  how  settle  the  account  with  one's  conscience, 
exacted  by  a  sense  of  responsibility  ? 

I  have  always  had  a  passion  for  the  Beautiful. 

I  have  always  believed  that  the  aim  of  art  was  to 
realize  the  expression  of  the  Beautiful.  I  believe  in  the 
Beautiful— I  feel  it,  I  see  it ! 

If  the  man  in  me  is  often  a  pessimist,  the  artist,  on 
the  contrary,  is  pre-eminently  an  optimist. 

More  than  this,  I  affirm  that  life  would  seem  to  me 
absolutely  miserable  and  contemptible  if  we  had  not 
continually  before  our  eyes  the  enchanting  splendors  of 
the  Beautiful. 

In  affirming  this,  I  speak  of  moral  as  well  as  physical 
Beauty. 

But  what  is  the  Beautiful  ?  Where  is  it  ?  What  are 
its  attributes  ? 

Reason  is  powerless  to  answer  this  question  continu- 
ally propounded,  and  to  which  the  response  of  Plato, 
vague  though  it  be,  is  yet  the  best : 

'*  Love  is  the  only  light  that  can  guide  us  in  a  region 
where  all  is  mystery." 

One  might  add  to  the  definition  of  Plato  that  the 
Beautiful  is  not  only  the  splendor  of  the  true,  but  also  its 
intensity,  and  it  is  for  this  reason  that  it  is  to  be  met  with 
even  where  the  vulgar  see  only  ugliness. 

If  I  did  not  fear  to  be  still  more  vague  than  Plato,  I 
should  say,  The  Beautiful  is  the  essence  of  Life. 

It  is  also  the  grand  symphony  of  the  World,  which 
can  be  interpreted  only  by  those  who  possess  a  profound 
19 


290  THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

knowledge  of  its  laws,  and  of  the  relation  between  dis- 
cords and  harmonies. 

All  beings  provided  with  eyes  perceive  the  images 
of  things  ;  only  those  who  are  artistically  and  poetically 
endowed  see  them,  because  they  alone  comprehend 
their  harmonic  sense  in  the  universal  concert. 

Hence  their  delight  and  their  dissatisfaction  with 
things  concerning  which  the  majority  of  people  are  ab- 
solutely indifferent;  hence  their  contempt  for  purely 
imitative  art,  that  art  which  considers  things  only  for 
themselves,  and  seeks  to  deceive  the  eye  by  a  patient 
and  contemptible  mechanical  process. 

Art,  then,  has  not  for  its  end  merely  the  imitation  of 
Nature. 

But  in  what  degree  should  Nature  be  imitated  ?  To 
what  extent  should  the  artist  create  ?  How  should  he 
create  ? 

Is  it  not  presumption  on  his  part  to  think  that  he 
can  create  ? 

How  many  questions  arise  to  trouble  his  judg- 
ment ! 

A  painter  may  be  interesting  provided  he  has  studied 
Nature  sufficiently  to  avoid  copying  her  expressionless 
aspects,  but  he  will  touch  the  feelings  only  in  so  far  as 
he  can  interpret  her  intensities. 

How  is  the  artist  to  learn  to  recognize  the  essential 
features  of  Nature  which  he  is  to  depict,  and  the  com- 
monplaces which  he  is  to  avoid  ? 

He  can  only  do  this  by  elevating  his  soul  by  the  con- 
templation of  the  beautiful  spectacles  which  strike  his 
imagination,  and  by  lovingly  interpreting  them. 

For  it  is  not  enough  to  discern  and  portray  the  su- 
perficial character  of  things;  it  is  necessary  also — and 
this  is  the  most  important  point — to  interpret  their 
meaning,  their  expression  learned  by  putting  our  souls 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 


29I 


in  communication  with  what  I  shall  call  the  souls  of  in- 
animate objects. 

For  everything  in  nature  has  a  hidden,  and,  so  to 
say,  a  moral  life. 

This  life  is  mysterious,  but  in  nowise  chimerical,  and 
only  those,  whether  poets  or  artists,  who  are  penetrated 
deeply  with  it,  have  the  power  to  touch  the  feelings. 

What  is  the  sky  to  me  if  it  does  not  give  me  the  idea 
of  infinity  ? 

Looking  at  a  twilight  scene,  it  matters  little  that  my 
eye  should  receive  the  impression  of  the  view,  if  my 
spirit  does  not  at  once  experience  a  feeling  of  repose,  of 
tranquillity,  and  of  peace.  A  bunch  of  flowers  should, 
above  all  things,  rejoice  the  eye  by  its  freshness. 

The  spirit  of  a  subject  should  take  precedence  of 
the  letter. 

Force,  Elegance,  Majesty,  Sweetness,  Splendor, 
Grace,  Naivete,  Abundance,  Simplicity,  Richness,  Hu- 
mility— some  one  of  these  qualities,  according  to  the 
genius  of  the  painter  and  the  nature  of  the  subject, 
should  strike  the  beholder,  in  every  work,  before  he  has 
had  the  time  to  take  in  the  details  of  the  scene  repre- 
sented. 

These  are  the  aesthetic  virtues. 

They  are  common  to  all  the  arts,  which  live  only 
through  them.  The  most  skillful  execution,  the  most 
accurate  knowledge,  can  not  supply  their  place. 

They  are  eternal,  and  pass  through  the  caprices  of 
fashion,  without  losing  any  of  their  sovereign  power. 

They  insure  lasting  fame,  which  grows  with  time. 

Just  as  many  beauties  as  there  are,  just  so  many  cor- 
responding defects  are  there  which  assume  the  appear- 
ance of  the  former,  and,  misleading  the  public,  give  rise 
to  ephemeral  fashions. 

At  the  side  of  Beauty  is  Prettiness  ;  of  Grace  and 


292  THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

Elegance,  Affectation  ;  of  Naivete",  Silliness ;  of  Force, 
Heaviness  ;  of  Majesty,  Pomp  ;  of  Softness,  Insipidity  ; 
of  Abundance,  Prodigality ;  of  Splendor,  Tawdriness  ; 
of  Simplicity,  Poverty. 

The  public  often  allow  themselves  to  be  deceived  by 
appearances,  and  do  not  easily  distinguish  the  false  coin 
from  the  true.  The  crowd,  led  astray  at  first,  end  by 
ranging  themselves  on  the  side  of  the  acknowledged 
critics  ;  and  as,  after  all,  they  never  know  why  they  do 
so,  we  see  them  going  into  ecstasies  before  masterpieces 
which,  at  the  bottom  of  their  hearts,  they  still  think  ugly. 

True  art  will  always  address  itself  only  to  a  limited 
public. 

The  great  quality  which  constitutes  the  artist,  and 
which  is  born  with  him,  is,  then,  the  love  of  the  Beauti- 
ful ;  that  fire  which  thrills  the  soul,  fertilizes  it,  and  be- 
stows upon  it  that  profound  and  almost  unconscious 
perception  which  is  its  result,  the  light  of  feeling. 

Knowledge  gives  clearness,  feeling  surrounds  this 
clearness  with  mystery,  divines  the  Beyond,  pierces  the 
Infinite  ;  and  it  is  for  this  reason  that  I  have  said  in  my 

verses : 

....  L'art  est  la  clarte 
Supreme  rayonnant  au  milieu  du  mystere.* 


XCIII. 

ALL  these  questions,  suggested  by  my  studies,  crossed 
my  mind  at  one  time  or  another ;  and,  in  order  to  ter- 
minate this  digression  into  the  field  of  pure  aesthetics,  I 
will  give  here  some  pages  copied  from  my  note-books, 
written  in  1865,  and  summing  up  the  convictions  on  art 

*  Theodore  Rousseau  et  le  Bucheron  :  Les  Champs  et  la  Mer. 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 


293 


which  I  then  entertained — convictions  which  I  may  say 
have  changed  but  little  since  that  time. 

Truth  in  art  is  the  essence  of  visible  truth,  and  this 
essence  of  truth  is  the  Beautiful. 

The  Beautiful  is  a  mystery  which  can  be  interpreted 
only  by  another  mystery — inspiration. 

For  how,  in  truth,  does  the  painter  succeed  in  ex- 
pressing the  Beautiful  ?  Is  it  by  deliberately  correcting 
the  faults  of  the  model  who  is  posing  for  him  ?  No  ;  he 
could  only  make  this  correction  by  virtue  of  a  system, 
and  experience  demonstrates  that  every  system  in  art 
irrevocably  leads  to  coldness,  to  death. 

Nature,  then,  is  not  to  be  corrected  by  making  it 
conform  to  a  conventional  type.  The  artist  must  have 
the  intention  of  rendering  what  he  sees  and  conceives 
as  he  sees  and  conceives  it. 

His  exaltation  of  feeling  will  make  him  discern  the 
line  of  expression,  of  beauty,  which  he  will  follow  ;  and 
unconsciously  he  will  diminish  or  eliminate  the  insig- 
nificant or  useless  details  which  interfere  with  it. 

I  have  said  "  unconsciously,"  and  I  lay  stress  upon 
this  point.  If  the  artist  is  penetrated  by  his  subject,  he 
will  see  in  reality,  in  the  model  that  is  posing  for  him, 
only  those  traits  which  adapt  themselves  to  his  thought. 

Besides,  it  is  not  when  he  reasons  best  that  he  does 
best.  How  many  times  does  it  happen  that  he  does 
not  perceive  his  success  until  afterward  !  God  created 
the  world,  and  then  saw  that  it  was  good. 

For  when  a  work  is  completed  it  is  easy  to  analyze 
it  and  to  explain  the  means  by  which  the  effect  pro- 
duced has  been  brought  about.  How  many  people 
fancy  they  have  made  a  fine  discovery,  are  eager  to 
avail  themselves  of  it,  and  find  themselves  unable  to 
profit  by  it ! 


294  THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 

Painters  should  not  trouble  themselves  too  much 
about  execution.  I  mean  by  this  that  they  should  have 
in  view  the  representation  of  a  sincere  observation  of 
Nature,  and  shun,  as  they  would  the  plague,  the  coquet- 
ries of  the  brush.  Those  whose  aim  it  is  to  display  upon 
canvas  their  skilfulness  of  touch  can  succeed  in  pleasing 
only  fools. 

Oh,  the  insipid  skill  of  a  hand  which  is  always  in- 
fallible !  Oh,  the  delightful  unskilfulness  of  a  hand 
trembling  with  emotion  ! 

Truly  fine  execution  does  not  parade  itself;  it  effaces 
itself  humbly,  to  give  place  to  the  image  it  represents. 

O  artists  !  instruct  yourselves,  nourish  your  hearts, 
exalt  your  souls,  extend  your  vision,  and  do  not  trouble 
yourselves  about  painting  well.  The  more  clearly  you 
see  into  the  secrets  of  Nature,  the  clearer  and  more  skil- 
ful will  be  your  touch  ;  the  more  powerfully  you  are 
thrilled  by  feeling,  the  more  expressive  it  will  be  !  To 
see,  to  feel,  to  express — all  this  must  take  place  simul- 
taneously, spontaneously.  How  could  one  expect  a 
cold  calculation  to  produce  the  touch  which  should 
give  expression  to  your  thought,  follow  it  unceasingly 
and  immediately  in  all  its  inflections,  in  all  its  move- 
ments ? 

The  excellence  of  the  method  followed  is  also  a 
quality  which  is  to  be  analyzed  after  the  work  is  com- 
pleted, in  regard  to  which  it  is  well  to  consult  the  mas- 
ters, because  this  study  will  enable  you  to  penetrate 
more  deeply  into  their  spirit,  but  which  must  not  be 
thought  of  while  working. 

We  know  how  one  of  our  most  gifted  artists,  De- 
camps, allowed  himself  to  be  hampered  by  the  fruitless 
study  of  method,  to  the  great  detriment  of  his  work. 

If,  instead  of  confusing  his  touch  by  labored  and 
premeditated  painting,  by  useless  rubbing  out,  by  glairy 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 


295 


varnishing,  he  had  allowed  it  to  follow  his  inspiration 
freely,  how  much  greater  he  would  have  been  ! 

Nothing  can  supply  the  place  of  spontaneity  of 
touch,  conveying,  fresh  and  life-like,  the  direct  expres- 
sion of  the  feeling 

How  important  it  is  to  make  good  use  of  the  mo- 
ments of  inspiration  ;  and  how  often  it  happens  that  the 
execution  becomes  heavy  in  seeking  after  a  superficial 
and  impossible  perfection  ! 

This  is  because  fatigue  is  a  bad  counselor,  and  the 
desire  for  "  the  better "  is  to  be  distrusted  which 
springs  from  too  long  a  contemplation  of  one's  work. 

This  touch,  indeed,  the  direct  expression  of  the 
feeling  and  the  thought,  must  come  at  last,  in  order  to 
avoid  the  necessity  for  retouching  one's  work,  which 
would  render  it  heavy,  and  deprive  it  of  freshness  and 
life. 

A  young  and  inexperienced  painter  will  thoughtless- 
ly dissipate  in  his  sketch  all  the  fire  of  his  inspiration, 
and,  when  he  wishes  to  complete  his  work,  he  will  find 
before  him  an  impassable  gulf.  The  more  beautiful 
his  sketch,  the  heavier  and  more  labored  will  be  every 
touch  that  he  adds  to  it ;  and  every  effort  which  he 
makes  to  finish  it  will  seem  to  remove  it  still  further 
from  the  desired  end. 

The  experienced  artist,  on  the  contrary,  will  first  fix, 
in  a  life-like  sketch,  the  emotion  he  wishes  to  interpret ; 
then  taking  his  canvas,  he  will  fill  in  the  details  without 
haste,  and  will  prepare  all  the  materials  of  which  he  will 
have  need.  He  will  make  all  the  necessary  studies, 
and  will  outline  the  masses  of  his  painting  with  care. 

He  will  know  how  to  restrain  the  ardor  of  his  enthu- 
siasm, always  ready  to  carry  him  away,  in  order  that  his 
sketch,  made  with  premeditation,  may  in  no  way  inter- 
fere with  the  work  which  is  to  follow. 


296  THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 

He  knows  that  it  is  necessary  to  lay  the  foundations 
of  his  work  in  this  way,  in  order  to  give  greater  firmness 
to  the  forms,  greater  power  and  solidity  to  the  tones, 
as  well  as  to  aid  in  the  distribution  of  the  effects ;  but 
he  will  do  it  in  such  a  way — there  being  nothing  to 
distract  his  attention — as  will  leave  a  free  field  to  spon- 
taneity of  feeling,  so  that  the  touch  which  is  to  inter- 
pret it  may  be  final. 

It  is  necessary  that  everything  in  this  sketch,  the 
general  outlines,  proportions,  and  relative  values,  be 
rigorously  predetermined.  Every  detail,  as  well  as  every 
charm  of  color,  must  be  omitted. 

This  sketch  must  have,  besides,  contrasts  sufficiently 
strong,  accents  sufficiently  pronounced,  to  prevent  the 
artist  from  being  led  into  weakness  of  execution,  when 
he  shall  begin  his  picture. 

It  must  not  be  painted  in  the  final  tone,  for  nothing 
renders  a  painting  so  heavy  as  to  place  two  layers  of 
the  same  color  one  over  the  other. 

Once  the  sketch  is  well  laid  in,  and  perfectly  dry, 
let  the  painter  attack  his  work  boldly,  and  let  every 
touch  of  his  brush  be  the  consequence  of  the  feeling 
which  animates  him,  and  never  made  with  the  aim  of 
producing  a  fine  work. 

The  precept,  "  Know  thyself,"  may  be  addressed 
with  peculiar  aptness  to  the  painter.  It  is  of  the  ut- 
most importance  that  he  should  discover  in  what  his 
originality  consists.  This  is  not  easy,  for  we  gen- 
erally attach  special  importance  to  the  qualities  which 
;  Heaven*  has  denied  us.  Let  the  artist  shun  this 
temptation,  which  would  turn  him  aside  from  his  true 
career. 

If  his  nature,  for  instance,  is  energetic  and  robust, 
and  he  wishes  to  paint  in  a  sweet  and  tender  style,  he 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 


297 


will  lose  his  natural  qualities  without  acquiring  those 
which  he  seeks  to  attain. 

Figure  to  yourself  Gericault  influenced  by  Prudhon  ! 

It  must  not  be  deduced  from  this  that  an  artist 
would  do  wrong  to  draw  inspiration  from  the  various 
feelings  which  attract  him  ;  this  remark  applies  to  the 
character  which  he  is  best  fitted  to  give  his  painting — to 
style,  in  a  word. 

The  style  is  the  man.  Let  us  not  forget  this  old 
saying. 

The  great  masters  will  teach  us  to  see  clearly,  will 
elevate  our  souls,  and  nourish  our  hearts,  but  let  us 
imitate  in  them  only  their  ardent  study  of  life  and  all 
its  manifestations. 

If  we  seek  to  acquire  the  style  of  another,  we  re- 
nounce the  individual  style  which  we  might  have  ac- 
quired. Let  us  keep  to  that  which  we  like,  that  which 
we  feel. 

Let  us  be  severe  toward  ourselves ;  but,  when  we  are 
conscious  of  a  defect  in  ourselves,  let  us  seek  to  correct 
it  only  in  so  far  as  this  may  be  done  without  injury  to 
some  precious  quality  :  we  were  hard,  but  expressive  ; 
we  may  become  insipid  and  weak. 

Enlightened  art  critics  will  give  us  the  best  possible 
counsels,  which  we  should  accept  with  gratitude,  but 
which  we  must  follow  with  extreme  precaution.  That 
which  they  have  called  a  defect  is  perhaps  an  energetic 
mode  of  expression  peculiar  to  us  ;  to  lose  it,  therefore, 
would  be  to  lessen  our  worth. 

Nothing  is  more  insipid  than  an  expressionless  per- 
fection. A  touch  of  madness  is  better  than  death. 

The  great  masters  have  always  sought  to  preserve 
their  originality.  They  were  naturally  influenced  in  the 
beginning  by  their  teachers,  and  their  first  works  show 
traces  of  this  influence  ;  but,  once  acquired,  their  man- 


298 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 


ner  has  continued  entirely  their  own,  and  the  successive 
variations  to  be  observed  in  it  are  only  the  consequence 
of  the  changes  which  had  taken  place  in  themselves. 

This  manner  reveals  itself  all  at  once  from  the  very 
first  essays.  Education,  the  counsels  of  the  teacher,  the 
influence  of  fellow-students,  and  other  causes,  may  turn 
the  artist  from  it  for  a  time.  But,  if  he  be  really  gifted, 
he  will  infallibly  come  back  to  it.  His  self-assertion 
will  be  at  first  excessive,  for  he  will  push  forward 
toward  the  desired  goal  with  that  unreflecting  ardor 
which  gives  to  youth  its  rash  and  exclusive  ignorance. 
His  defects  will  be  plainly  perceptible,  but  he  will  at- 
tract irresistibly.  Such  is  the  power  of  dawning  genius. 

Happy  period  of  unconscious  inspiration  and  sudden 
flashes  of  genius ! 

But  soon,  the  first  surprise  past,  the  public  and  the 
artist  himself,  if  he  be  not  blinded  by  the  incense  of 
flattery,  will  discover  that  the  praise  accorded  to  the 
work  is  not  based  upon  a  solid  foundation. 

The  artist  becomes  restless.  Then  follows  a  period 
of  doubt,  of  painful  effort,  and  of  discouragement. 

Timidity  succeeds  to  the  first  freedom  of  manner. 

Burning  to  acquire  what  he  lacks,  the  painter  loses 
for  a  time  that  which  he  possessed 

He  depreciates  his  native  qualities ;  and  in  this  con- 
sists the  danger.  In  reaching  after  the  shadow  he  may 
lose  the  substance.  He  grows  tired  and  discouraged. 
He  strives  after  singular  or  subtle  effects,  strange  novel- 
ties— in  a  word,  he  seeks  the  impossible. 

His  painting,  worked  up  to  excess,  becomes  feeble 
and  expressionless,  labored  and  heavy. 

Even  his  early  successes  add  to  his  despondency, 
since  they  have  led  only  to  this.  Formerly  his  style  was 
hard  and  coarse,  it  is  true  ;  but  was  not  this  better  than 
the  impotence  in  which  he  now  languishes  ? 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 


299 


His  efforts,  however,  are  less  futile  than  he  imagines. 
They  will  prove  useful  to  him,  if  only  as  experi- 
ence. 

One  day  he  sees  again  one  of  his  early  paintings, 
long  forgotten,  and  which  strikes  him  as  if  it  were  the 
work  of  another  painter.  True,  it  is  full  of  defects  into 
which  he  would  not  now  fall,  but  it  exists,  it  lives! 
It  has  a  real  power,  an  inexplicable  but  irresistible 
charm. 

"  And  yet  I  was  born  a  painter !  "  he  says.  "  Whence 
comes  it,  then,  that  I  exhaust  myself  now  in  futile  at- 
tempts, when  formerly  I  could  awaken  emotion  with  so 
little  effort  ? " 

Then  his  eyes  are  opened.  He  sees  clearly  into  the 
depths  of  his  own  nature.  He  has  only  to  dare ;  he  will 
dare.  He  will  go  straight  forward,  shaking  off  the  bor- 
rowed burden  which  impedes  his  progress. 

An  enthusiasm  which  will  not  prove  fruitless  again 
takes  possession  of  him  during  his  sleepless  vigils.  His 
sight  is  restored  to  him  ,  his  eyes  see  clearly ! 

The  voluptuous  ardor,  the  feverish  thrills  which  are 
produced  by  the  consciousness  of  the  creative  power, 
have  chased  away  the  restless  suffering  which  paralyzed 
his  imagination.  He  is  astonished  at  the  spirit  he  dis- 
plays, at  the  expression  and  the  animation  which  forms 
and  colors  assume  under  his  brush. 

He  is  himself  once  more.  What  do  I  say  ?  Himself, 
but  greater,  broader,  purer,  simpler  than  before  ! 

With  the  faults  of  his  youth  have  disappeared  also,  it 
is  true,  some  regrettable  charms,  but  his  finer  qualities 
have  gained  singularly  in  power. 

The  power  which  freedom  and  broadness  of  view 
confer,  such  is  the  supreme  quality  which  distinguishes 
the  final  manner  of  the  true  masters. 

It   is   feeling   directed   by   science.      It   is   science 


300  THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 

warmed  by  feeling,  force  self-contained  and   self-con- 
scious. 

What  we  call  a  study  is  a  fragment,  a  note,  an  indi- 
cation, and  can  never  constitute  a  whole.  The  objects 
are  there  for  their  own  sakes,  without  any  correla- 
tion which  would  make  them  form  part  of  a  general 
idea. 

A  picture,  on  the  contrary,  should  be  a  harmonious 
blending  of  different  elements,  all  conducing  to  the 
same  end. 

In  a  really  fine  composition  no  change  can  be  made, 
nothing  can  be  added  or  taken  away,  without  disturbing 
the  harmony  of  the  whole.  Even  the  most  insignificant 
of  its  details  must  be  in  its  own  proper  place  and  not 
elsewhere.  There  should,  indeed,  be  nothing  insignifi- 
cant in  it.  Everything  should  conduce  to  render  more 
expressive  the  sentiment  of  the  subject. 

A  detail  which  should  not  be  associated  with  the 
leading  idea  would  tend  to  destroy  the  feeling  of  the 
composition. 

Every  subject  requires  an  arrangement,  an  effect,  an 
execution  peculiar  to  itself  ;  and  no  general  rules  can  be 
laid  down  for  the  composition  of  a  picture. 

The  finest  composition  is  not  that  which  displays  the 
most  elegant  lines,  but  that  which  expresses  most  clearly 
the  spirit  of  the  subject.  No  detail  can  be  exempt  from 
the  logic  imposed  by  the  central  idea  of  the  work. 

The  same  thing  is  true  of  color. 

The  most  ravishing  caprices  of  the  palette  would  be 
most  out  of  place  in  a  composition  which  requires  sober 
coloring,  and  vice  versa. 

The  sovereign  law  which  should  govern  every  com- 
position is  unity.  The  central  idea  must  reveal  itself 
clearly,  always,  and  instantaneously,  whatever  may  be 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 


301 


the  number  and  importance  of  the  subordinate  ideas 
which  accompany  it. 

Painters  without  experience  often  weaken  the  effect 
they  wish  to  produce  by  a  prodigality  which  multiplies 
uselessly  the  figures  and  the  accessories  of  a  picture. 

It  will  not  be  long  before  they  learn  that,  the  greater 
the  conciseness  and  simplicity  with  which  a  thought  is 
interpreted,  the  more  it  gains  in  expressive  force. 

The  public  in  general  believe  that  a  composition 
containing  a  hundred  figures  denotes  mop6  imagination 
than  a  composition  containing  only  ten/ but  it  is  often 
the  reverse  of  this  which  is  true.  f 

In  a  good  composition  the  means  employed,  the 
springs,  so  to  say,  disappear  to  let  the  action  and  the 
sentiment  of  the  scene  expressed  speak  for  them- 
selves. 

Supreme  skill  does  not  reveal  itself ;  it  knows  how  to 
conceal  itself  under  the  form  of  extreme  simplicity. 

Whatever  the  realists  may  say,  there  are  few  scenes 
in  nature  which  can  be  copied  exactly  as  they  are. 

The  most  horrible  catastrophes  often  take  place 
among  surroundings  which  have  nothing  sinister  in 
them.  A  joyous  sunbeam  may  light  up  the  death  agony 
of  a  man  dying  of  the  plague.  I  know  how  art  may 
avail  itself  of  a  contrast  like  this,  but  how  often  does  a 
tragedy  occur  under  circumstances  seemingly  the  most 
commonplace  ! 

I  remember  I  was  turning  the  corner  of  a  street  one 
day  in  Antwerp,  when  I  perceived,  a  few  steps  away,  a 
crowd  of  people  gathered  around  some  object  which 
was  hidden  from  my  view. 

I  thought  at  first  that  they  had  been  attracted  there 
merely  by  curiosity,  and  the  idea  of  a  tragedy  having 
taken  place  never  occurred  to  my  mind. 

Drawing  nearer,  I  saw  lying  on  the  ground  before 


3o2  THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 

me,  apparently  lifeless,  a  workman  who  had  fallen  from 
a  ladder  and  crushed  his  skull  against  the  pavement. 

I  was  vividly  impressed  by  the  brutal  realism  of  the 
occurrence  itself,  but  not  at  all  by  the  circumstances 
under  which  it  had  taken  place. 

Art,  happily  not  having  at  its  disposal  this  means  of 
stirring  the  emotions,  must  do  so  by  more  striking  meth- 
ods than  would  be  strictly  correct  according  to  true  feel- 
ing and  the  logic  of  the  imagination. 

When  I  was  close  to  the  dying  man  I  recognized  ex- 
pressions and  details  which  my  reason  told  me  were 
characteristic  of  his  condition,  but  which  I  had  never 
before  seen  ;  this  recognition,  however,  was  not  imme- 
diate, and  was  at  first  confused. 

It  is  the  part  of  the  artist  to  seize  these  elements,  to 
group  them  together,  or  to  separate  them,  as  may  be 
necessary,  in  order  to  bring  out  clearly  the  general  idea. 

Those  realists  who  reject  arrangement,  and  refuse  to 
admit  the  necessity  of  selection  even,  deny  the  existence 
of  art. 

They  may  laugh  at  the  rustic  who  said  to  Rousseau 
as  he  was  painting  an  oak,  "  Why  are  you  making  that 
tree,  when  it  is  already  made  ? " 

It  is  none  the  less  evident,  however,  that  if  the  land- 
scape-painter had  in  view  only  the  exact  reproduction 
of  the  oak,  the  remark  of  the  peasant  would  have  been 
perfectly  just. 

What  Rousseau  aimed  at,  then,  was  an  individual  in- 
terpretation which  should  be  superior  to  the  reality. 

He  did  not  paint  the  tree  itself,  but  the  expression 
which  he  lent  it,  the  impression  he  received  from  it,  and 
this  perhaps  unconsciously  and  impelled  by  his  passion 
for  the  Beautiful,  thinking  all  the  time  that  he  was  mak- 
ing an  exact  copy  of  nature. 

There  are  certain  pictures  which  please  at  first,  but 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 


303 


when  they  are  out  of  sight  leave  only  a  faint  impression 
on  the  mind ;  there  are  others,  on  the  contrary,  which 
leave  an  impression  on  the  mind  that  grows  stronger 
with  time,  engraves  itself  upon  the  memory,  and  is  never 
again  effaced  from  it. 

One  often  finds  it  difficult  to  estimate  the  exact  de- 
gree of  merit  possessed  by  a  work  while  one  is  looking 
at  it ;  but  later,  when  the  impression  received  from  it 
shall  have  settled,  so  to  say,  and  become  classified,  it 
will  be  easy  to  discern  which  are  its  really  powerful 
qualities,  and  which  are  those  that  have  only  a  super- 
ficial interest. 

The  effect  a  picture  produces  on  the  memory  is  the 
counter-proof  of  its  direct  effect. 

In  a  painting,  parts  which  are  beautiful  in  themselves 
may  constitute  a  bad  whole. 

To  say  of  any  work  of  art  that  it  has  beauties  is  to 
condemn  it.  This  thought  does  not  occur  to  one  in 
contemplating  a  masterpiece. 

If  an  accessory  in  a  picture  strikes  the  eye,  so  much 
the  worse  !  A  defect  which  did  not  attract  the  atten- 
tion would  be  better. 

When  an  artist,  in  exhibiting  his  picture,  perceives 
that  his  visitors  are  struck  by  the  beauty  of  a  subordi- 
nate part,  let  him  not  hesitate  for  an  instant  to  sacri- 
fice it. 

To  close  these  extracts,  taken  from  the  note-books 
in  which  I  recorded  my  thoughts  on  art  in  former  years, 
I  will  give  the  conclusions  I  have  arrived  at : 

The  true  is  not  material  reality  only. 

Spirit  should  govern  matter. 

The  terrestrial  creation  is  made  for  the  service  of 
man,  who  is  its  king. 

We  all  have  thoughts,  feelings,  and   passions  ;  the 


304 


THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 


artist  should  not  be  satisfied  to  be  the  only  one  to  play 
the  passive  part  of  a  mirror. 


XCIV. 

I  AM  now  nearing  the  end  of  the  task  I  imposed  upon 
myself  in  writing  these  memoirs. 

When  I  say  the  task  I  imposed  upon  myself,  I  do  not 
mean  to  imply  that  this  task  has  been,  in  the  main,  a 
painful  one. 

But,  if  it  has  for  the  most  part  afforded  me  happi- 
ness, on  the  other  hand  I  have  had  to  overcome  at 
times  a  natural  reluctance  to  recall,  in  retracing  the 
past,  sorrows  which  sadden  the  lives  of  even  the  hap- 
piest men. 

Yet  even  sorrow  itself,  viewed  from  a  distance,  is  not 
without  a  certain  melancholy  charm. 

It  is  from  this  distance  that  I  would  contemplate  the 
sorrows  of  past  years  ;  at  this  distance,  when  the  shreds 
of  their  fleece,  left  by  the  frightened  flock  upon  the 
brambles,  are  undistinguishable  from  the  blossoms  of 
the  heather. 

I  wish  to  preserve  this  illusion. 

This  chapter  will  be  in  this  work  like  those  little 
cemeteries  reposing  on  the  outskirts  of  villages,  whose 
horror  is  concealed  under  a  network  of  flowery  verdure. 

In  bringing  here  the  beloved  beings  who  have  had  a 
part  in  these  memoirs,  I  shall  yield  myself  up  not  to 
anguish  but  to  pious  emotion. 

It  is  in  our  hearts  that  we  cherish  the  venerated 
memory  of  those  we  have  loved  and  lost. 

Their  mortal  part,  committed  to  earth,  passes  into 
the  grass  and  the  flowers  with  which  we  adorn  their 


THE    LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 


305 


graves,  and  under  this  form  we  still  love  it  with  that 
vague  sentiment  of  universal  brotherhood  which  unites 
all  nature. 

But  the  soul  is  not  there ! 

This  has  gone  to  mingle  with  the  supernatural  world, 
to  which  it  aspired  even  here  below — the  dreamed-of 
Ideal !  It  sees  the  promised  light. 

And  it  has  departed,  leaving  its  memory  in  our  hearts 
living  and  fresh  as  if  it  had  not  left  us. 

The  sight  of  the  grave,  with  all  its  afflicting  sugges- 
tions, could  add  nothing  to  the  intensity  of  this  memory. 

The  chrysalis  dries  up  pitiably  on  the  tree  to  which 
its  silken  cocoon  still  remains  attached — the  dark  and 
narrow  tomb  whence  the  splendid  butterfly  has  taken 
flight  toward  the  sun,  as  souls  take  flight  toward  happier 
spheres. 

The  tomb  of  the  worm  was  the  cradle  of  the  but- 
terfly. 

Who  does  not  feel,  in  the  depths  of  his  conscious- 
ness, that  the  soul  has  nothing  in  common  with  the 
darkness  of  the  sepulchre  ? 

Who  can  understand  the  laws  which  govern  the  in- 
visible realms  ? 

May  we  not  hope  for  all  things  ? 

We  have  long  since  seen  depart  for  those  regions  of 
rest,  my  little  sister,  my  mother,  my  grandmother,  and 
my  father. 

.And  now,  in  1862,  on  St.  Nicholas*  Day,  just  as  my 
wife  was  preparing  the  gay  bonbons  of  the  season 
which  were  to  give  Virginie  so  much  delight  (we  all 
know  with  what  joyful  enthusiasm  mothers  set  about 
these  tasks),  the  telegraph  brought  us,  without  warning, 
the  news  of  the  death  of  Felix  de  Vigne.  Rheumatism 
of  the  heart  had  carried  him  off,  after  an  illness  of  a  few 
days.  I  had  thought,  from  a  reassuring  letter  I  had  re- 

20 


306  THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 

ceived,  and  which  I  had  not  shown  to  Elodie,  that  his 
malady  was  nothing  more  than  a  slight  indisposition. 

We  have  seen  that  he  was  making  progress  in  his 
art.  One  of  his  latest  pictures,  "  Sunday  Morning  in 
the  Middle  Ages,"  occupies  a  good  place  in  the  museum 
at  Brussels.  He  was  a  Chevalier  of  Leopold,  and  on 
the  day  of  his  death  his  appointment  to  the  post  of 
Director  of  the  Academy  of  Louvain  arrived. 

In  1866  we  lost  our  little  angel  Louis,  the  son  of  my 
brother  Louis,  at  the  age  of  seven. 

And,  in  1867,  thou,  our  beloved  uncle  and  second 
father,  didst  in  thy  turn  leave  us  ! 

Notwithstanding  his  sixty-nine  years  his  health  had 
appeared  excellent,  when  he  suddenly  fell  a  victim  to  an 
unforeseen  disease.  It  may  be  said  of  him  that  he  had 
no  old  age,  so  full  of  enthusiasm  was  he  still  for  the 
good  and  the  beautiful. 

It  is  needless  for  me  to  say  how  greatly  he  was  re- 
gretted, even  by  many  of  those  whose  opinions  he  had 
opposed. 

He  had  transmitted  his  own  noble  sentiments  to  my 
niece  Julie,  whose  education  he  had  directed,  with  the 
intention,  as  he  said,  of  "  making  a  woman  of  her." 

He  sought  to  cultivate  in  her  heroism  of  soul.  The 
poor  child,  who  was  of  a  highly-strung  temperament,  had 
need,  rather,  of  a  preceptor  who  should  have  taught  her 
to  moderate  her  stoical  ardor. 

When  a  child  she  had  burned  herself  with  a  red-hot 
iron,  in  order  to  accustom  herself  to  pain. 

She  read  Plutarch,  Lamartine,  and  Leconte  de  Lisle, 
with  delight. 

She  had  a  passion  for  martyrs.  She  cherished  a  de- 
votion to  the  memory  of  Andre"  Che"nier  that  bordered 
on  love. 

Physically  she  resembled  Charlotte  Corday. 


THE  LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST.  307 

She  shared  every  pang  suffered  by  her  country  ! 
Poor  blighted  flower,  she  soon  languished  under  our 
cold  sky. 

They  took  her  to  the  south — to  the  land  where  the 
orange-tree  blooms. 

The  warm  sunshine  revived  her  for  a  time;  they 
thought  her  saved. 

She  believed  she  was  well,  and  ran  about  one  day 
imprudently  on  the  beach  of  Antibes,  when  a  sea-breeze 
was  blowing.  There  it  was  that  she  suggested  to  our 
friend,  the  delightful  poet,  Paul  Arene,  one  of  his  most 
charming  poems—"  Au  Bord  de  la  Mer" — of  which  I 
shall  quote  a  few  stanzas  : 

"  Un  matin  je  revait  de  Grece 

Pres  de  la  mer,  quand  sur  le  bord, 
Passerent,  de  Tor  dans  leur  tresse, 
Deux  mignonnes  enfants  du  Nord. 

"  Vois  la-bas  fremir  a  la  brise 

Le  rire  innombrable  des  flots, 
Vois  cette  ecume  qui  se  brise 
Aux  pointes  blanches  des  ilots. 

"  C'est  fete  en  Mediterranee." 

Alas  !  six  months  later  the  Mediterranean  was  no 
longer  en  fete. 

There  are  days  when  its  restless,  rapid  waves  beat 
against  the  shore  with  the  lugubrious  sound  of  a  knell ! 


xcv. 

IN  1865,  after  I  had  finished  the  "Day's  Work 
Done,"  I  was  again  seized  with  the  desire  to  travel,  and 
I  set  out  for  Brittany. 


308  THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 

I  was  profoundly  struck  by  Finistere,  under  all  its 
aspects,  maritime,  rural,  and  religious. 

The  dreary  moors,  the  granite  crosses  of  the  Calva- 
ries *  erected  at  the  solitary  cross-roads,  expressing  the 
rude  fervor  of  the  inhabitants  ;  the  deep,  dark  paths 
where  neither  the  light  from  the  zenith,  nor  the  sun- 
beams sifted  through  the  leafy  roof  overhead  sufficed  to 
dispel  the  eternal  gloom  in  which  innumerable  roots 
twisted  and  interlaced  themselves,  like  knots  of  vipers  ; 
the  wan  light  of  the  crepuscule  and  of  cloudy  days  that 
cast  a  leaden  hue,  like  a  gray  tan,  over  the  thin  faces  of 
the  peasants  with  their  fierce  eyes  and  their  long,  thick 
hair,  falling  down  their  backs,  over  their  stooped  shoul- 
ders ;  the  women  that  looked  like  pictures  of  the  Virgin, 
with  their  mitre-shaped  head-dresses,  their  ruffs,  out  of 
which  rose  their  slender,  curved  necks,  and  their  cotton 
petticoats  trimmed  with  gold  or  silver  braid — this  monas- 
tic rusticity,  this  mystic  wildness,  evoked  in  my  mind 
confused  and  far-off  recollections,  more  remote  than  any 
I  retained  of  my  native  Artois. 

And  I  felt  that  I  was  indeed  a  descendant  of  the 
Bretons. 

These  were  the  thoughts  that  crossed  my  mind  when 
we  came  in  full  view  of  the  square  of  Chateaulin,  where 
a  fair,  crowded  with  people  from  the  neighboring  vil- 
lages, was  being  held.  At  sight  of  the  various  costumes 
— brown,  black,  yellow,  red,  and  blue — our  little  Vir- 
ginie  cried,  "  O  mamma,  the  Carnival !  " 

We  were,  then,  at  Chateaulin,  where  we  had  just  ar- 
rived by  boat  from  Brest,  on  our  way  to  Douarnenez. 

We  hired  a  rickety  vehicle,  a  sort  of  cabriolet-carri- 
ole, with  a  glazed  window,  where  we  were  completely 
protected  from  the  rain  which  fell  unceasingly. 


*  In  Catholic  countries,  a  hill  with  a  chapel  or  cross  on  the  top. 


THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 


309 


We  soon  entered  the  moors  covered  with  pink  heather 
and  wrapped  in  vapor  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  a 
gloomy  and  desolate  scene  viewed  through  the  rain  that 
beat  against  the  window-panes  which  rattled  in  their 
frames,  and  that  was  now  beginning  to  make  its  way 
through  the  crevices. 

Our  little  Virginie,  in  harmony  with  the  weather, 
burst  into  a  torrent  of  tears,  and  the  only  way  in  which 
I  could  succeed  in  pacifying  her  was  by  gathering 
bunches  of  broom  and  fox-glove  for  her. 

In  this  way  we  passed  through  Kerghoat,  celebrated 
for  its  Pardon,  and  through  Locronan  and  Kerglass,  two 
villages  full  of  individuality,  each  containing  a  fine 
church. 

These  granite  monuments,  their  inner  walls  moss- 
grown  from  the  dampness,  symbolize  well  the  somber 
character  of  the  faith  of  these  people. 

The  Breton  is,  by  nature,  artistic. 

In  Brittany,  more  frequently  than  elsewhere,  does 
the  traveler  meet,  even  in  the  most  solitary  hamlets,  those 
rudely  carved  shapeless  stones  that  exercise  so  mysteri- 
ous a  fascination  over  the  beholder. 

They  may  be  monstrous,  but  they  are  neither  vulgar 
nor  ridiculous ;  their  dreamy  ugliness  has  a  somber  and 
even  a  menacing  air. 

Thrilling  with  the  ardor  of  mystic  visions  it  was  that 
the  obscure  artists  of  an  earlier  age  gave  with  unskilful 
touch  to  their  works  a  power  of  expression  that  is  sel- 
dom the  result  of  polished  art. 

And  nothing  could  be  more  in  harmony  with  these 
desert  heaths  than  those  granite  monuments  of  art. 

Douarnenez,  whose  women  and  whose  beach  I  had 
heard  so  highly  extolled,  impressed  me  but  little  at  first. 

At  Douarnenez  one  misses  the  sunshine. 

The  shores  of  the  bay,  vaguely  defined  in  the  soft, 


3io 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST. 


heavy,  bluish  mists,  had  an  indescribably  chilling 
effect. 

And  then  this  fog,  slowly  but  surely  inhaled,  had 
damped  the  ardor  of  my  enthusiasm.  The  women  looked 
awkward  in  their  Sunday  finery.  The  men,  with  red- 
dish-brown complexions  and  bluish-black  costumes, 
swarmed  in  the  streets,  many  of  them  drunk,  or  stood 
in  groups  around  the  doors  of  the  taverns.  Under  the 
leaden  sky  all  this  was  intensely  depressing. 

We  alighted  from  our  carriole  at  the  H6tel  du 
Commerce,  where  we  found  Edouard  Leconte,  a  land- 
scape painter  full  of  promise,  who  died  at  thirty  ;  our 
charming  poet  Andre*  Theuriet,  and  Emanuel  Lansyer, 
whose  skilful  pencil  was  the  first  to  interpret  Douar- 
nenez. 

But  how  different  everything  looked  the  next  day 
when,  after  winding  our  way  through  a  network  of  fetid 
streets  permeated  with  a  nauseating  odor  of  sardines, 
we  suddenly  found  ourselves  in  sight  of  the  bay  that 
stretched  before  us  in  its  dazzling  beauty ! 

It  looked  like  an  immense  cup,  carved  by  some  Greek 
giant  for  the  use  of  the  gods. 

Brown  cliffs,  streaked  with  white  and  pink  ;  black 
cliffs,  veined  with  gold  ;  creeks,  capes,  shores — wound 
away  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  inexpressibly  graceful 
in  outline  and  harmonious  in  color. 

In  the  background,  the  heath-clad  hills  of  the 
Menez  C'hom,  pink  like  the  peach-blossom,  rose  in  the 
limpid  atmosphere. 

And  along  the  beach  fringed  with  foam  stretched 
somber  woods  and  golden  harvests  toward  Locronan 
seated  on  its  graceful  mountain-slope,  its  beautiful 
church  standing  sharply  out  against  the  sky. 

To  the  left  were  Cape  La  Chevre  with  its  bold  but- 
tresses, peaked  cliffs,  and  lace-like  stone-work,  and 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST.  3II 

Point  L'Heide,  at  whose  feet  the  unresting  ocean  dash- 
es ceaselessly. 

In  its  bed  of  tawny  sand  the  sea  boiled — a  sea  of 
sapphires  and  amethysts,  through  which  flashed  here 
and  there  a  dazzling  gleam  of  white  foam,  covered 
with  a  thousand  barks,  whose  brown  and  red  sails 
flapped  in  the  wind. 

From  precipitous  granite  walls,  constantly  exuding 
moisture,  flashing  in  the  sunshine  and  clouding  in  the 
shade,  innumerable  springs  gushed  forth  and  flowed 
sparkling  down  over  the  sand  where  they  wound  like 
moire  ribbons,  so  clear  and  transparent  as  to  be  almost 
invisible,  then  disappeared,  losing  themselves  in  the 
sea,  leaving  behind  them  pools,  motionless  mirrors  re- 
flecting the  sky  and  the  brown  rocks  that  framed  them 
in. 

Occasionally  a  wave  would  dash  with  force  against 
the  rocks  covered  with  sea-weed,  and  hurry  then  swiftly 
back  to  the  sea,  carrying  with  it  the  pebbles  of  the 
shingly  beach. 

Around  the  quiet  pools,  like  flights  of  swallows, 
here  strongly  defined  in  the  full  sunshine,  there  half- 
veiled  by  the  clouds  of  dashing  spray,  moved  groups  of 
washer-women,  svelte  and  tall,  their  heads  covered  by 
the  white  coiffe  of  Douarnenez,  tightly  drawn  in  on  the 
top  of  the  head,  and  with  lappets  like  pointed  wings 
turned  up  at  the  back,  leaving  the  neck  bare. 

The  population  is  maritime,  and  of  various  types  and 
customs. 

There  are  here  faces  with  straight  profiles,  the  fore- 
head and  chin  prominent,  the  lips  thick,  the  jaws  square 
and  strong,  the  eyes  blue  and  with  well-opened  lids, 
the  arch  of  the  brow  wide,  prolonging  the  eyebrows  to  the 
temples — a  Gallo-Roman  type,  dear  to  Michael  Angelo. 
There  is,  too,  the  gazelle-like  type,  with  flexible  neck, 


312  THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

that  recalls  the  desert,  oblique  eyes,  the  pupils  spark- 
ling like  black  diamonds  set  in  brilliant  white  enamel, 
delicate  and  sharply  chiseled  features  and  an  olive- 
bronze  complexion. 

The  one  brings  to  the  mind  the  dolmens  of  Celtic 
forests,  the  other  the  harems  of  the  East. 

Here  are  none  of  the  vanities  of  dress  ;  the  garments 
are  thrown  on  hap-hazard — petticoats,  once  black,  now 
rusty  with  use  ;  blue  petticoats,  discolored  with  the  sea- 
air,  following  in  an  unbroken  line  the  outlines  of  the 
form,  or  gathered  up  in  front  and  fastened  back  behind, 
revealing  the  graceful  outlines  of  the  legs ;  shawls, 
darned,  patched,  and  ragged,  swaying  with  every  move- 
ment of  the  form — now  thrown  over  the  shoulders,  like 
wings,  now  falling  in  graceful  folds,  swelling  out  and 
blowing  about  at  the  caprice  of  the  breeze,  or  with  the 
movements  of  the  wearer. 

Here  and  there  young  girls  bent  gracefully  over  the 
water,  the  head  slightly  raised,  the  bare  arms  extended 
as  they  wrung  the  linen,  or  rising  and  falling  with  the 
blows  of  the  bats  that  clacked  swiftly  to  the  ceaseless 
accompaniment  of  the  dashing  of  the  waves. 

Then  there  were  groups  of  children,  in  rags  of  every 
color,  tumbling  about,  and  rolling  over  one  another  ; 
little  half-naked  fisher-boys,  agile  as  monkeys  ;  little  girls 
wearing  their  mothers'  old  caps  hind-side  foremost ; 
round  heads  covered  with  red,  curly  hair,  with  ruddy 
faces  that  looked  at  you  with  glorious  eyes  and  gaping 
mouths. 

Finally,  in  the  midst  of  this  scene  of  life,  light,  and 
clouds  of  humid  dust,  were  to  be  seen  more  quiet 
figures — a  tall  girl  standing  in  the  sunshine,  her  weight 
resting  on  her  hip,  her  face  turned  toward  the  sea,  and 
lazily  twisting  her  body  and  her  neck,  against  which 
the  breeze  flapped  the  lappets  of  her  cap ;  while  farther 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 


313 


away  gloomy-looking  old  women,  like  mummies,  sitting 
bolt  upright  against  the  rock,  in  which  they  almost 
seemed  to  be  incrusted,  spun  their  flax  like  the  Parcse  ; 
and  grave  matrons  passed  and  repassed  ceaselessly,  with 
erect  head  and  straight  neck,  and  firm  and  slow  step, 
their  hands  on  their  hips,  their  eyes  cast  down,  their 
jugs  firmly  balanced  on  their  heads. 

You  who  visit  this  coast — Poulmarch — after  me,  may 
find  there  types  of  ugliness.  As  for  me,  I  saw  none. 

I  expended  my  energy  in  profitless  admiration  of  it. 

It  made  me  fall  ill. 

I  made  my  studio  there.  I  filled  my  note-books 
with  sketches  of  it. 

But  I  would  have  liked  to  paint  everything  at  once 
— the  people,  the  rocks,  the  sea,  the  sky,  the  back- 
grounds. 

What  should  I  give  up,  and  why  give  up  anything? 

And  I  began  to  plan,  to  turn  over,  to  mix  up  a  hun- 
dred different  compositions,  always  hoping  to  put  in 
everything,  never  succeeding,  and  ready  to  begin  over 
again  the  next  day. 

I  lost  my  sleep  on  account  of  it,  and,  if  I  sometimes 
dropped  asleep  from  fatigue,  I  continued  to  paint  and 
design  in  my  dream  ;  and  I  again  saw  those  wonders, 
whirling  before  me  in  greater  confusion  than  ever,  and 
I  thought  that  I  had  grasped  at  last  that  sorcerer  of  the 
bay. 

For  was  he  not  indeed  a  sorcerer,  this  Proteus,  who, 
changed  his  form  and  color  every  day ;  now,  with  blurred 
and  softened  outlines,  looming  gigantic  through  the  fog, 
now  diminishing  in  size  and  permitting  the  eye  to  dis- 
tinguish his  adornments  of  lace-like  arabesques ;  at 
times  dashing  himself,  white  with  anger,  against  the  im- 
passive rocks  covered  with  yellow  sea-weed,  at  times, 
calm  as  a  mirror,  reflecting  the  sky  with  its  white  clouds, 


314  THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

broken  by  the  shadows  of  the  vessels  ;  at  times  send- 
ing forth  dazzling  lights,  that  flashed  along  the  sapphire 
and  emerald  waves  to  kindle  furnace-like  flames  in  the 
saffron  atmosphere,  and  then  fade  into  the  leaden  gray 
of  night! 

At  last,  when  I  had  sketched  my  composition  (and 
I  may  say  that  I  did  not  choose  the  best  among  those  I 
had  planned),  I  began  the  picture  of  the  4<  Washer-women 
of  the  Rocks  of  Finistere." 

As  usual,  the  sketch  had  been  made  with  perfect 
ease,  and  I  thought  that  the  picture  was  going  to  paint 
itself. 

The  principal  group  was  in  the  sun-flecked  shadow, 
while  sunshine  flooded  the  background.  Oh,  the  back- 
ground !  It  was  there  that  I  had  thought  the  chief 
beauty  of  my  picture  was  to  lie  ;  and,  leaving  my  figures 
in  outline,  I  spent  all  my  energies  in  working  at  the 
distances,  not  reflecting  that  their  effect  must  depend 
on  the  firmness  and  the  finish  of  the  figures. 

But  I  put  off  touching  these  figures  to  the  last, 
working  desperately  at  the  grottoes,  the  beach,  and  the 
villages  lising  one  above  the  other  on  the  shore,  and 
which  were  to  shimmer  so  poetically  in  the  sunshine. 

It  was  a  Penelope's  web.  I  found  it  impossible  to 
rid  myself  of  the  fixed  idea  that  always  brought  me 
back  to  the  same  parts  of  my  composition,  which  I 
worked  up,  rubbed  out,  scratched  out,  and  outlined 
again  in  vain. 

My  nerves  became  disordered.  At  times  it  seemed 
as  if  my  brain  would  burst,  but  I  did  not  give  up  my 
task.  I  would  lie  down  upon  the  ground  and  wait 
until  the  crisis  had  passed.  Then  I  would  resume  my 
work,  exclaiming  to  myself,  "  I  will  accomplish  it,  or 
die  in  the  attempt  !  " 

Finally,  I  was  obliged  to  put  aside  this  picture  for 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 


315 


another  year.  It  had  produced  a  buzzing  in  the  ears 
which  rendered  me  deaf,  and  other  nervous  disturb- 
ances which  at  times  made  work  impossible  to  me. 

Decidedly  this  bay  set  at  naught  the  pencil  and  the 
brush  of  the  artist.     Its  problem  was  the  Infinite. 


XCVI. 

I  RETURNED  to  the  peasants  with  whom  I  had  been 
so  much  struck  at  Chateaulin. 

I  saw  them  again  on  the  following  Sunday  morning 
at  Ploare. 

Ploare  is  a  village  of  some  importance,  situated  on 
the  hill  between  Douarnenez  and  Quimper. 

The  scenery  here  is  superb — woods  of  tall  pines  and 
beeches,  where  squirrels  leap  from  branch  to  branch  ; 
gnarled  oaks  ;  chestnuts,  some  of  them  of  gigantic  size  ; 
white  poplars  and  quince-trees ;  here  and  there  a  rude 
granite  farm-house,  with  thatched  roof,  surrounded  by 
its  dung-heap ;  then  moors  covered  with  pink  heather, 
or  golden  gorse  ;  a  smiling  sylvan  glen,  its  little  stream- 
let, and  its  mill  hidden  in  the  flowery  brush  ;  farther 
on,  meadows,  fields  of  rye,  and  snowy  buckwheat ;  mag- 
nificent alleys,  always  shady,  traversed  by  herds  of 
small  cows  and  majestic  swine,  and  along  which  long 
lines  of  peasants  wind  picturesquely  on  market-days. 

The  church,  situated  at  the  entrance  to  the  village, 
faces  Douarnenez,  to  which  it  appears  to  belong.  It  is 
of  Gothic  architecture,  and  in  the  genuine  Breton  style, 
with  its  low  porch,  its  slender  tower,  through  which  the 
light  is  seen,  its  beautiful  foliage,  and  its  fantastic  gar- 
goyles. Its  gray  granite  walls  are  stained  with  patches 
of  white,  green,  and  yellow  lichens. 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

Around  the  church,  in  its  low-walled  inclosure 
shaded  by  large,  leafy  elms,  are  grouped  picturesquely 
the  houses  of  the  village  that  stand  out  in  bold  relief 
against  the  sea,  which  in  the  distance  seems  to  rise 
above  the  level  of  the  streets. 

Fisher-folk  and  the  peasants  of  the  neighboring 
villages  attend  mass  here. 

Although  large,  the  church  is  too  small  for  its  pur- 
pose. The  faithful  for  whom  it  has  no  room  kneel 
under  the  porch,  under  the  trees,  and  along  the  sacred 
walls,  against  which  fanatics  stretch  out  their  arms  in 
the  form  of  a  cross,  like  bas  reliefs,  while  others  pros- 
trate themselves,  touching  the  stone  with  their  fore- 
heads, their  rosaries  in  their  hands,  their  features  hidden 
among  the  masses  of  their  straggling  locks.  The  less 
devout  sit  on  the  wall  of  the  inclosure. 

At  the  entrance  a  blind  man  kneels  in  the  street, 
bending  forward,  his  head  raised,  his  sightless  eyes 
wide  open,  leaning  on  his  stick  with  one  hand  and 
holding  out  his  worn  felt  hat,  in  a  supplicating  attitude, 
with  the  other.  He  is  pathetically  beautiful  with  his 
long  black  locks  floating  over  his  rags  of  coarse  gray 
cloth. 

In  a  powerful  voice,  now  with  vehemence,  now  in 
droning  accents,  he  hurries  or  retards  his  song  with 
fanatic  inflections  that  seem  to  have  come  down  from 
long  past  ages. 

It  brought  before  my  mind  the  beggars  who  clam- 
ored and  stretched  out  their  arms  toward  Christ  on  the 
borders  of  the  Dead  Sea. 

Here,  too,  as  in  the  time  of  Christ,  dogs  crouched 
and  venders  encumbered  with  their  wares  the  entrance 
and  the  porch. 

In  the  middle  of  the  inclosure,  where  we  are  seated, 
the  faithful  sleep  stretched  on  the  grass,  with  their 


THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 


317 


hats  for  pillows  ;  they  are  sleeping  away  their  too 
early  potations  without  attracting  the  slightest  atten- 
tion. 

For  here  both  gossip  and  ridicule  are  unknown. 

A  drunken  peasant  on  his  knees,  his  rosary  between 
his  fingers,  is  praying  with  great  fervor  ;  but  his  heavy 
head  falls  first  on  one  side  and  then  on  the  other,  and 
sleep  threatens  to  get  the  better  of  his  devotion.  He 
ends  by  resting  his  head  on  the  shoulder  of  his  neigh- 
bor, who  is  not  at  all  disturbed  in  his  devotions  thereby. 
But  there  comes  a  moment  in  which  the  ceremony  re- 
quires that  they  shall  rise.  The  pious  drunkard,  losing 
his  support,  tumbles  on  his  back,  with  his  feet  in  the 
air.  He  continues  his  prayer  without  releasing  his  hold 
on  the  beads  of  his  rosary. 

No  one  is  surprised.  They  raise  him,  and  set  him 
again  on  his  knees.  He  continues  to  mumble  his  pater, 
and  no  one  has  even  smiled. 

Such  are  these  simple  believers  ! 

If  the  men  among  the  sea-faring  part  of  the  popula- 
tion are  less  handsome  than  the  peasants,  the  peasant 
women,  on  the  other  hand,  are  far  from  being  less  grace- 
ful than  the  fisher- women. 

Many  of  the  women  of  the  land  are  ugly,  heavy,  and 
ill-shaped  ;  I  will  not  speak  of  those  who  are  only  com- 
monplace. 

Poverty  and  neglect  of  hygienic  laws  have  here  given 
rise  to  many  deformities,  some  of  them  extraordinarily 
unusual. 

I  have  seen  here  several  sisters  who  actually  made 
one  think  of  the  beasts  of  the  Apocalypse,  whose  fright- 
ful and  monstrous  appearance  possessed  such  a  horrible 
fascination  that  I  could  not  remove  my  eyes  from  them. 
They  exercised  over  me  a  sort  of  spell ;  grotesque  faces 
in  which,  incredible  as  it  may  seem,  were  to  be  recog- 


318  THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 

nized  certain  distinctive  features  which  constitute  the 
beauty  of  their  race  ! 

Perhaps  gentle  souls  were  exiled  in  these  hideous 
forms  ! 

And  I  thought  of  "  Beauty  and  the  Beast,"  a  story 
that  had  made  me  shed  many  tears  in  my  childhood. 

The  recollection  of  those  forms  and  faces  still  dis- 
turbs me. 

But  there  are  also  to  be  found  among  the  peasantry 
women  superbly  beautiful,  with  rounded  contours  and 
fresh  complexions,  in  contrast  with  interesting  and  de- 
vout types  of  stunted  ugliness,  such  as  the  painters  of 
the  middle  ages  loved  to  depict. 

Pallid,  pathetic,  unhealthy  natures,  resembling  those 
unnatural  flowers  that  grow  in  caves,  and  turn  their  droop- 
ing forms  toward  the  opening  where  the  sunshine  enters. 

They  have  the  appealing,  languid  air  of  those  flow- 
ers, the  same  aspirations  toward  the  light ;  pallid  vir- 
gins, consumed  by  a  hidden  flame,  in  whose  waxen  faces 
the  eyes  burn  like  tapers. 

On  their  pure  foreheads  the  band  of  red  cloth  seems 
to  bleed  like  a  wound,  while  the  pink  strings  fall  down 
the  slender  neck  emerging  from  the  ruffle  that  sur- 
rounds it,  from  the  heavy  mitre-shaped  head-dress  dot- 
ted with  blue  and  gold  spangles  softened  by  the  misty 
whiteness  of  embroidered  tulle. 

Then,  missal  in  hand,  there  were  rich  farmers'  wives, 
robust  and  florid,  with  equally  high  head-dresses  adorned 
with  lace  through  which  sparkled  metallic  spangles,  with 
broad  faces  and  high  cheek-bones,  resembling  those  vir- 
gins carved  and  painted  by  the  peasants,  dressed  in  em- 
broidered cloth  of  gold  with  flounced  and  embroidered 
aprons  of  shot  silk,  and  heavy  black  petticoats  trimmed 
with  as  many  rows  of  silver  braid  as  they  had  livres  for 
their  dowry. 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 


319 


And  in  the  midst  of  these  groups  I  listened  absently 
to  the  sound  of  the  mass,  my  mind  filled  with  ravishing 
dreams,  and  I  fancied  I  saw  rise  before  me  scenes  of 
long-vanished  ages. 

The  strains  of  the  organ  came  from  the  church, 
floating  in  mystic  harmonies  among  the  branches  of  the 
elms,  and  seeming  to  animate  everything,  even  to  the 
very  stones,  with  a  supernatural  life.  And  I  fancied  the 
saints  in  the  porch  and  the  gargoyles  of  the  cornices, 
with  their  grotesque  heads,  breathed  as  if  under  the 
spell  of  a  sorcerer,  while  the  sisters  resembling  the 
beasts  of  the  Apocalypse,  prostrated  themselves  in  the 
grass  below. 

And  I  half  expected  to  see  the  Galilean  come  and 
drive  away  the  venders  and  the  dogs  who  encumbered 
the  porch,  and  by  the  touch  of  his  divine  fingers  restore 
sight  to  the  poor  blind  man  whose  droning  accents 
reached  us  from  the  road. 


XCVII. 

BUT  it  is  at  the  Pardons  that  one  must  see  this  popu- 
lation of  the  sea-coast  and  the  country  inland — at  Saint 
Anne  la  Palud,  at  Plougastel,  at  Saint  Wendel,  at  La 
darte*,  at  Kerghoat,  and  many  other  places  where  these 
religious  festivals  and  fairs  are  held. 

Here  is  Saint  Anne  la  Palud,  with  its  isolated  church, 
that,  from  the  desert  where  it  stands,  looks  out  upon  the 
sea  :  moors,  granite  rocks,  a  few  stunted  and  twisted 
trees,  two  or  three  little  farm-houses,  two  or  three  gray 
pools  hidden  in  the  somber  oasis  of  brush  that  bends 
before  the  ever-blowing  wind  of  the  ocean.  In  this  vast 
arid  plain  dotted  by  low  hills  and  hollowed  out  by  fur- 


320  THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

rows,  on  a  solitary  hill,  the  well  of  Saint  Anne,  which 
shelters  the  miraculous  statuette  of  the  saint,  sends  forth 
its  sacred  water  that  first  forms  a  pool,  and  then  flows 
farther  down  in  a  slender  streamlet  toward  the  bay 
whose  plaintive  moan  can  be  heard  at  regular  intervals. 

Occasionally  the  lowings  of  the  cows  mingle  with  this 
noise.  These  are  the  only  sounds  to  be  heard  in  this 
desert. 

But  one  morning  all  this  is  changed. 

As  in  the  time  of  the  migrations  of  pastoral  tribes, 
suddenly  a  village  of  tents  springs  up  on  this  naked  soil, 
with  its  inns,  its  shops,  its  sheds,  and  its  stables. 

Brown  or  white  tents  of  different  sizes  and  shapes, 
with  dark  openings  in  their  sides,  shine  in  the  sunlight. 

Around  are  the  vehicles,  the  donkeys,  and  the  horses. 

It  is  the  last  Sunday  in  August. 

And  from  the  neighboring  heights,  on  every  path, 
over  the  rocks,  on  the  plains  below  which  fade  into  the 
blue  of  the  sea  covered  with  boats — from  all  sides,  in  a 
word,  come  lines  of  pilgrims  with  banners  at  their  head. 

I  have  witnessed  this  remarkable  scene,  grand  and 
variegated  with  a  thousand  costumes  of  somber  or  brill- 
iant colors.  I  have  seen  Chateaulin  all  black ;  Pleeben 
all  brown  ;  Plonevez  all  blue  ;  Plougastel  mingling  to- 
gether the  most  vivid  colors — yellows,  greens,  violets, 
and  oranges — Plougastel,  whose  fishermen,  with  their 
superb  attitudes,  wear  the  Neapolitan  caps,  and  whose 
women  look  like  parrots  with  their  large  head-dresses 
raised  on  hoops. 

I  have  celebrated  this  Pardon  of  Saint  Anne  in  my 
verses.  I  have  described  these  fanatics  arriving  at  the 
sacred  fountain  and,  streaming  with  perspiration,  worn 
out  by  the  long  journey,  pouring  bowlfuls  of  the  icy 
cold  water  down  their  backs  under  their  open  shirts, 
and  down  their  sleeves  along  their  raised  arms. 


THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 


321 


But  poetry  refuses  to  describe  those  women  whose 
blind  faith  extinguishes  their  modesty,  and  who  dip  in 
the  miraculous  water  of  the  pool  whatever  part  of  their 
body  may  be  diseased. 

I  have  tried  to  paint  these  people  of  another  age 
streaming  among  the  tents,  gathering  around  the  dram- 
shops or  the  chapels,  mingling  piety  and  drunkenness 
together  under  the  surveillance  of  the  gendarme,  whose 
bicorn  seems  as  much  out  of  place  here  as  it  would  have 
seemed  at  the  procession  of  La  Juive. 

But  how  describe  all  these  strange  beings,  these  beg- 
gars who  gather  behind  the  arch  of  the  church,  gesticu- 
lating, uttering  groans  and  wild  cries — shameless  cries, 
shameless  groups,  maniacal  contortions  and  balancings 
of  hideous  monsters,  as  nearly  resembling  the  earth  in 
color  as  the  toads  which  hop  about  in  the  dry  soil,  and 
with  here  and  there  among  the  horrible  filth  of  their 
rags  and  on  their  ghastly  faces,  like  those  of  clowns,  a 
red  spot,  which  is  a  broken-out  ulcer ! 

I  have  described  the  pious  crowd  surrounding  the 
church.  I  have  shown  them  winding  like  a  long  ribbon 
along  the  sea-shore,  while  the  beggars,  left  behind,  dance 
about,  gathered  together  in  mocking  groups  and,  for- 
getting for  a  moment  their  sighs  and  groans,  give  them- 
selves up  to  jokes  and  jeers. 

I  have  tried  to  describe  the  innumerable  groups  seen 
through  the  smoke  and  the  gathering  shades  of  twilight 
assembled  on  the  evening  of  the/^  around  the  blazing 
fires  kindled  here  and  there  between  the  tents,  for  the 
evening  meal,  while  crowds  of  frolicsome  urchins  leap 
daringly  through  the  flames.  Then  all  these  sounds  die 
away  one  by  one  in  the  silence  of  the  night,  and  nothing 
is  heard  but  the  hollow  moaning  of  the  sea. 

Finally,  I  have  painted  the  sun  breaking  through  the 
morning  mists,  lighting  up  Locronan  seated  midway  on 
21 


322  THE   LIFE   OF   AN    ARTIST. 

the  gentle  slope  of  its  mountain,  and  Plougastel  inton- 
ing its  canticle,  which  is  echoed  from  the  cliffs,  then 
dies  away  behind  the  high  rocks  at  the  foot  of  Menez 
C'hom. 

But,  whatever  be  the  character  of  the  multitude  that 
press  around  Saint  Anne  de  la  Palud,  the  scene  of 
action  is  so  vast  that,  unhappily,  the  interest  it  awakens 
is  picturesque  and  historic  rather  than  personal.  The 
imagination  is  more  struck  than  the  heart. 

At  Kerghoat,  on  the  contrary,  a  profound  emotion 
takes  possession  of  one  to  the  exclusion  of  every  other 
sentiment.  Such  was  the  case  with  me  on  the  occasion 
of  my  first  visit  there. 

With  the  exception  of  the  people  of  Plougastel  and 
a  few  more  distant  parishes,  the  assemblage  was  almost 
the  same  as  at  Saint  Anne's. 

The  church  of  gray  granite,  defined  against  a  back- 
ground of  dark-green  foliage,  and  standing  near  an  oak- 
grove,  was,  as  is  customary  at  the  Pardons,  surrounded 
by  a  triple  cordon  of  wax-candles,  the  offering  of  the 
neighboring  parishes.  The  inclosure,  dotted  with  graves, 
with  here  and  there  a  rusty  iron  cross,  was  overgrown 
with  the  thick,  bright-green  grass  peculiar  to  cemeteries. 

In  the  center  was  a  Calvary. 

With  an  image  of  Christ  on  the  cross  were  stone  im- 
ages of  saints,  defaced  by  time,  types  whose  pious  de- 
formity awakened  mystic  dreams,  and  who  presented 
some  traits  of  resemblance  with  the  faithful  seated  on 
the  steps  of  the  pedestal. 

The  inclosure  was  crowded  with  people. 

The  blind  man  of  Ploare  was  stretched  upon  the 
grass  in  a  drunken  stupor.  Other  striking-looking  beg- 
gars sang  psalms  near  the  apsis,  while  the  prostrate  crowd 
prayed  in  silence. 

I  have  already  described  the  different  types  to  be 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN    ARTIST. 


323 


seen  among  this  multitude — their  beauties, their  expressive 
ugliness,  their  strange,  almost  demoniac  deformities  ;  and 
the  pallid  girls,  ecstatic  souls,  whose  eyes  burned  with 
fever,  and  whose  waxen  foreheads  seemed  to  bleed  under 
their  red  bands,  like  the  miraculous  wafers  of  the  legends. 

There,  too,  were  to  be  seen  Chouans,  with  hawk- 
like faces,  their  yellow  eyes  shining  through  their  long, 
tangled  locks. 

There  were  the  same  costumes,  with  gold  and  blue 
spangles  glittering  through  lace;  the  same  subdued  reds, 
like  the  rosy  hues  of  dawn  ;  the  same  gorgeous  harmonies 
of  color. 

The  multitude  wore  an  expectant  air. 

The  shrine  of  the  saint  was  about  to  appear. 

The  tall  trees  cast  over  the  scene  that  semi-obscurity 
of  the  woods  characteristic  of  Celtic  ceremonies. 

Stormy  clouds,  which  had  gradually  gathered  in  the 
heavens,  deepened  this  obscurity.  The  effect  of  the 
brilliant  colors  was  heightened  by  this  gloom,  but  the 
pallid  faces  of  the  sickly-looking  girls  looked  paler  still 
in  this  mystic  light,  while  the  sunburned  complexions  of 
the  Chouans  took  on  a  sinister  gray  color. 

Everything  breathed  a  sacred  awe. 

Suddenly  in  the  silence  the  bell  sounds,  shrill  and 
clear ! 

The  multitude  rise  to  their  feet. 

They  press  forward  from  all  sides. 

Thousands  of  white  head-dresses  crowd  together 
among  the  trees,  looking  like  a  vast  sea  of  snow,  rising 
and  falling  under  the  stormy  sky. 

And  the  two  thousand  tapers  in  the  hands  of  the 
multitude,  lighted  one  from  the  other,  blaze  forth  at 
once,  casting  around  in  the  gloom  a  rosy  glow,  stars 
glowing  in  an  earthly  heaven,  ardent  as  the  souls  that 
glow  in  this  place  of  prayer. 


324  THE    LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

There  is  a  movement  at  the  entrance.  The  first 
banner,  which  they  find  necessary  to  lower  passing  under 
the  arch,  makes  its  appearance. 

It  is  heavy,  and  the  man  who  carries  it  staggers, 
borne  down  by  its  weight.  He  stops,  and  by  a  violent 
effort  which  strains  all  his  muscles  lifts  it  up  again. 

A  crucifix — the  face  of  a  ghostly  pallor,  the  arms 
fleshless — is  represented  on  this  barbaric  ensign. 

The  drummers  beat  their  drums  whose  warlike  sounds 
mingle  with  the  strains  of  sacred  psalms. 

They  emerge  from  the  shadows  of  the  dark  doorway, 
looking  like  portraits  of  Rembrandt.  There  are  three 
of  them — one  with  the  face  of  an  eagle,  one  with  the 
face  of  a  Christ,  one  with  the  face  of  a  bandit.  Plan, 
plan,  plan  !  They  walk  on,  proud  and  full  of  emotion. 

Little  girls,  with  gilt  mitre-shaped  head-dresses  and 
red,  embroidered  frocks,  pass  on  bearing  the  shrine,  to- 
ward which  every  eye  is  eagerly  turned. 

Then  come  the  penitents.  They  walk  with  trembling 
step  and  bowed  head,  the  expiatory  tapers  in  their 
hands,  their  legs  and  feet  bare,  their  open  shirts  dis- 
playing their  hairy  breasts  ;  their  eyes,  haggard  and 
burning  feverishly,  shining  through  their  tangled  locks, 
blonde,  black,  or  gray,  that  float  behind  them,  blown,  as 
it  were,  by  the  wind  of  remorse  ;  faces,  some  of  them  so 
fleshless  that  they  already  seem  to  belong  to  the  charnel- 
house  where  the  dead  Look  at  us  from  the  eyeless  sock- 
ets of  their  grinning  skulls. 

Their  sharp,  emaciated  features  contrast  with  the 
religious  peace  of  this  starry  field,  where  the  flames  of 
the  tapers  flicker  on  the  death-like  faces  of  shadowy 
virgins,  whose  souls  soar  in  ecstatic  rapture  toward  their 
heavenly  home,  for  which  more  than  one  of  them  waits 
but  the  first  chills  of  autumn  to  depart. 


THE   LIFE  OF   AN  ARTIST. 


XCVIII. 


325 


IT  is  twenty-five  years  since  I  witnessed  the  Pardon 
which  I  have  just  described,  and  which  took  place  in 
1865.  The  character  of  this  religious  festival  has  prob- 
ably, along  with  everything  else,  undergone  great  modi- 
fications since  that  time. 

Many  causes  have  contributed  to  this,  among  others 
and  chiefly,  the  fatal  war  of  1870,  which  called  all  the 
young  men  of  the  country  to  arms.  Adieu,  then,  bro- 
gou-craz  and  long  locks  !  And,  too,  the  bourgeois,  in 
search  of  sea-bathing,  have  invaded  the  scenes  of  these 
pilgrimages  which  were  before  unintruded  upon  by 
strangers. 

In  1873  we  were  again  at  Douarnenez,  and  we  spent 
some  delightful  hours  on  the  enchanting  beach  which 
winds  among  the  rocks  at  the  foot  of  the  town. 

While  I,  in  a  retired  nook,  painted  or  wrote  verses, 
Virginie  played  with  her  little  companions  beside  her 
mother,  who  occupied  herself  in  reading  or  sewing. 

But  while  she  built  castles  with  their  moats  in  the 
sand  and  watched  the  waves  washing  them  away,  she 
was  silently  observing  all  that  was  taking  place  around 
her — children  bathing  in  the  sunshine  or  rolling  on  the 
sand,  or  washer- women  wielding  their  swift  and  noisy  bats. 

And,  returning  to  our  room,  she  would  draw  all  this 
from  memory.  I  have  now  hundreds  of  her  sketches 
which  are  very  curious,  and  in  which  her  progress  may 
be  followed  step  by  step. 

At  one  time  I  was  a  little  alarmed  by  the  ardor  she 
displayed  in  her  work  and,  fearing  the  effect  on  her 
growing  brain,  I  forbade  her  to  work  in  this  way  from 
memory. 

For  several  months  I  saw  no  more  sketches. 


226  THE   LIFE   OF   AN   ARTIST. 

Finding  that  she  obeyed  my  command  to  the  letter, 
and  beginning  to  be  uneasy  lest  her  creative  power 
might  be  weakened,  I  communicated  my  fears  to  my 
mother. 

She  spoke  of  the  matter  to  Virginie,  who  confessed 
that  she  had  continued  to  draw  in  secret. 

And  it  was  with  great  delight  that  I  found  in  the 
bottom  of  her  bureau-drawer  a  heap  of  drawings,  varied 
compositions,  which  were  no  longer  the  scrawls  of  the 
child,  but  which  rendered  expressive  scenes  very  clearly 
and  altogether  in  the  style  of  the  paintings  she  has  since 
made.  She  had  used  for  her  drawings  every  scrap  of 
paper  that  came  in  her  way — leaves  torn  from  note- 
books, old  copy-books,  envelopes  of  letters,  on  which 
she  drew  hasty  sketches  with  the  trepidation  which  ac- 
companies every  forbidden  act. 

One  day  as  I  was  sitting  on  a  rock  on  the  beach  of 
Douarnenez,  sketching,  I  saw  a  dark,  elegantly  dressed 
young  man,  who  formed  the  center  of  a  group,  advancing 
toward  me  over  the  moist  sand  which  reflected  the  blue 
light  from  the  zenith.  He  walked  with  rapid  strides, 
his  head  raised,  his  right  arm  extended,  declaiming 
verses  in  that  mock-heroic  manner  in  which  irony  and 
enthusiasm  are  blended,  as  if  he  did  not  wish  to  be 
taken  altogether  seriously  while  reciting  to  his  friends 
these  improvisations  which  displayed  genuine  poetic 
fervor.  This  sort  of  mock-heroism  is  another  form  of 
modesty. 

The  exhilarating  atmosphere  had  inspired  him,  and 
he  called  out  to  some  of  his  companions,  who  had  re- 
mained on  the  beach,  "  I  have  just  found  the  last  line  of 
a  superb  sonnet !  " 

I  had  caught,  from  my  seat  on  the  rocks,  the  words 
of  this  last  line  : 

"  En  poussant  de  grands  cris,  je  marchais  dans  le  ciel !  " 


THE   LIFE  OF   AN   ARTIST. 


327 


"  Who  is  this  crazy  actor  ? "  I  said  to  myself. 

On  the  following  day  I  met  him  on  the  Ploare  road, 
in  the  company  of  several  artists  who  were  returning 
from  an  excursion  into  the  country.  He  wore  a  manila 
hat,  around  which  was  twisted  a  branch  of  honeysuckle 
plucked  on  the  way.  He  carried,  slung  over  his  shoulder, 
with  the  triumphant  air  of  a  conqueror,  a  number  of 
mushrooms  tied  in  a  white  handkerchief  which  was  fast- 
ened to  the  end  of  his  umbrella. 

He  was  accompanied  by  a  young  lady  of  a  Minerva 
type  of  beauty,  and  a  charming  little  girl  with  eyes  the 
color  of  black  coffee,  whom  her  nurse  was  carrying  in 
her  arms. 

He  was  declaiming  in  the  same  mock-heroic  fashion 
as  on  the  preceding  day. 

Among  the  persons  who  accompanied  him  I  per- 
ceived my  friend  Jundt  and  Moulin,  the  sculptor.  They 
asked  me  to  call  on  them  in  the  evening,  at  the  Hotel 
du  Commerce,  where  all  the  members  of  this  gay  party 
were  stopping. 

I  had  just  returned  to  Douarnenez,  where  I  had 
hired  an  apartment. 

Passing  through  Paris,  I  had  bought  at  the  railway- 
station  Lemerre's  "  Anthologie."  I  must  confess,  to  my 
shame,  that  for  the  first  time  I  read  there  some  verses  of 
Leconte  de  Lisle. 

They  had  enchanted  me. 

"  Le  Condor,"  "  Les  Hurleurs,"  L'Epee  d  'An- 
gantyr,  with  their  magnificent  rhythm,  their  splendor 
of  diction,  the  tragic  horrors  of  their  images,  their  pro- 
found insight  into  the  spiritual,  their  wonderful  melody, 
resounded  ceaselessly  in  my  memory  and  held  me  cap- 
tive by  their  spell. 

I  had  read  there  also  with  great  delight "  Les  A'ieules," 
of  Coppee,  that  exquisite  pastoral  by  a  Parisian,  in  which 


328  THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 

I  fancied  I  again  saw  the  dear  old  Catharine  of  my 
childhood. 

In  the  evening,  then,  I  presented  myself  at  the  Hotel 
du  Commerce,  as  had  been  agreed  upon.  I  found  the 
party  still  at  table. 

The  conversation,  in  which  the  dark  young  man  took 
an  active  part,  was  animated. 

Moulin  made  the  introductions,  and  the  pompous 
declaimer  of  the  beach  showed  himself  so  simple  and 
cordial  that  he  won  my  heart  at  once. 

We  naturally  spoke  of  poetry,  and  of  Leconte  de 
Lisle. 

"  What !  "  he  cried,  "  you  are  a  painter,  and  you  have 
read  and  appreciate  Leconte  de  Lisle !  " 

I  confessed  that  I  had  only  read  him  recently. 

He  was  an  intimate  friend  of  the  great  poet,  and  he 
recited  various  passages  from  his  poems  to  me.  He  re- 
peated, too,  some  sonnets  of  his  own,  with  whose  splen- 
did plastic  and  heroic  form  every  one  is  now  familiar. 

And  when  I  returned  home,  at  a  very  late  hour,  I 
went  to  whisper  to  my  wife,  who  had  already  retired  : 
"  You  remember  our  handsome  actor  ?  He  is  a  charm- 
ing young  man  and  an  entertaining  poet ;  his  name  is 
Jose  Maria  de  Heredia." 

It  is  to  be  conjectured  that  I,  on  my  side,  had  not 
displeased  him,  for  he  came  on  the  following  day  to  see 
us.  He  inspired  me  with  sudden  confidence,  and  I  con- 
fessed to  him  that  I,  too,  made  verses  in  secret. 

He  took  my  manuscript  away  with  him. 

He  was  so  amiable  as  to  take  an  interest  in  my 
verses,  and  he  gave  me  excellent  advice  concerning 
many  of  their  faults  of  inexperience.  But  where  is  the 
young  poet  (for  I  was  young  as  a  poet)  who  has  not 
profited  by  the  counsels  of  Heredia? 

A  close  friendship  soon  united  us. 


THE   LIFE  OF   AN   ARTIST.  329 


XCIX. 

I  HAD  written  some  verses  at  college  in  1843,  and 
others  at  Courrieres  in  1847,  while  convalescing  from 
the  illness  which  had  interrupted  my  painting. 

Occasionally  after  that  I  felt  the  impulse  to  write 
verses,  and  in  1864  I  wrote  my  first  sonnet,  "  Courrieres/' 
inspired  by  the  plain  of  my  native  village  dominated  by 
its  belfry-tower,  a  building  whose  happy  proportions 
have  been  admired  by  all  the  architects  who  have 
seen  it. 

It  bears  the  date  ^32,  and  was  built  by  Charles  V. 

Shortly  afterward,  inspired  by  the  view  of  a  pool 
sleeping  in  the  shadow  of  the  alders,  I  composed  a  little 
poem  called  "  Le  Soir,"  which,  like  the  sonnet  just  men- 
tioned, is  included  in  the  collection,  "  Les  Champs  et  la 
Mer."  Then  my  poetic  ardor  had  cooled. 

When  the  fatal  year  of  1870  arrived,  I  threw  away 
my  brushes  and  expended  my  energy  in  writing  furious 
imprecations  and  wild  stanzas,  all  of  which  I  destroyed 
with  the  exception  of  two  or  three  sonnets  of  a  more 
moderate  character,  and  which  are  included  in  the  first 
edition  of  the  before-mentioned  work.* 

When  this  excitement  passed  away,  my  thoughts  still 
continued  to  clothe  themselves  occasionally  in  the  form 
of  poetry. 

I  found  in  this  a  new  source  of  joy,  and  at  the  same 
time  an  outlet  for  certain  aspirations  which  had  begun 
to  give  my  painting  a  too  realistic  character. 

*  At  this  time  my  brother  Emile,  remembering  that  he  had  been 
a  soldier,  quitted  his  wife  and  child  and  joined  the  active  troops  at 
Pas-de-Calais.  He  was  named  commandant,  and  at  the  head  of  his 
battalion  was  one  of  those  who  protected  the  retreat  of  Faidherbe, 
after  the  battle  of  Saint  Quentin. 


330  THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

The  appearance  of  "  Les  Champs  et  la  Mer  "  pro- 
cured me  the  advantage  of  the  friendship,  formed  at  the 
house  of  my  publisher  and  dear  friend,  Alphonse  Le- 
merre,  of  some  of  the  distinguished  poets  who  are  an 
honor  to  our  literature. 

Then  I  grew  more  ambitious,  and  I  was  so  daring  as 
to  conceive  the  project  of  writing  a  sort  of  pastoral  epic. 

But,  before  telling  how  this  idea  came  to  my  mind,  I 
wish  to  devote  a  few  lines  to  an  artist  whom  I  knew  and 
loved,  who  was  for  ten  years  my  colleague  on  the  jury  of 
painting,  and  who  was  the  first  to  encourage  me  to  write. 

I  refer  to  Eugene  Fromentin. 

He  was  a  man  of  singularly  delicate  and  refined 
nature,  of  a  highly-strung  temperament,  and  both  amia- 
ble and  noble-minded. 

Every  one  is  familiar  with  his  admirable  qualities  as 
a  painter,  and  his  distinguished  gifts  as  a  writer.  Theo- 
phile  Gautier  has  told  me  that  he  considered  "  L'Ete 
dans  le  Sahara  "  one  of  the  masterpieces  of  our  litera- 
ture. 

How  many  beauties  there  are,  too,  in  "L'Arme'e 
dans  le  Sahale,"  "  Dominique,"  and  "  Les  Maitres  d'Au- 
trefois  "  ! 

He  had  made  his  cttbut  with  some  unpretentious  little 
landscapes  of  his  native  place,  which  had  attracted  my 
attention  in  1847. 

I  was  therefore  greatly  surprised  when  I  saw  his  first 
pictures  of  Africa,  two  or  three  years  later.  A  complete 
transformation  had  taken  place  in  his  style,  which  had 
become  absolutely  independent.  Those  strange  can- 
vases looked  at  a  distance  like  marble  plaques,  so  con- 
fused seemed  the  masses  formed  by  the  groups  of  Arabs 
and  camels  enveloped  in  the  rosy  gray  shadows  of  the 
twilight. 

But  the  eye  soon  learned  to  separate  them,  and  the 


THE  LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 


331 


mystery,  thus  penetrated,  gave  rise  to  delightful  emo- 
tions. 

I  remember  a  picture  in  this  style,  of  some  Arab 
women,  running,  laden  with  their  leathern  water-bottles. 
Oh,  the  delightful  freshness  of  the  first  impressions  of 
an  unknown  land  ! 

Fromentin  afterward  became  more  concise,  more 
learned  ;  but  I  have  always  regretted  those  first  delight- 
ful flowers  of  his  imagination. 

Every  one  who  knew  him  will  remember  how  great 
were  his  personal  attractions. 

His  frame  was  small,  but  perfectly  well-propor- 
tioned. 

From  his  long  sojourn  in  Africa  he  had  acquired  a 
resemblance  to  the  Arabs,  but  in  the  vivacity  of  his 
manners  and  in  his  witty  eloquence  he  was  still  a 
Frenchman. 

Amiable,  cordial,  and  kind-hearted,  intolerant  of 
everything  commonplace,  upright  and  frank,  Fromen- 
tin had  gained  the  esteem  and  affection  of  his  com- 
rades. His  black  eyes,  full  of  expression,  were  brilliant 
and  soft. 

I  never  pass  before  his  little  house  in  the  Place 
Pigalle,  now  a  restaurant,  without  thinking  with  emo- 
tion of  our  pleasant  chats  at  the  studio,  in  the  company 
of  a  few  congenial  friends,  among  them  my  excellent 
friend  Busson. 

In  1876  I  was  again  in  Brittany,  and  on  a  beautiful 
summer  day  I  was  contemplating,  for  the  hundredth 
time,  the  wonderful  Bay  of  Douarnenez,  when  an  ac- 
quaintance handed  me  his  newspaper,  with  the  remark, 
"  Fromentin  is  dead." 

This  unexpected  piece  of  intelligence  petrified  me 
with  amazement  and  grief. 

I  had  so  lately  left  him  full  of  life  and  health  !     A 


332  THE   LIFE  OF   AN   ARTIST. 

phlegmon,  probably  the  result  of  a  carbuncle,  had  caused 
his  death  after  an  illness  of  a  few  days,  at  La  Rochelle, 
his  native  place. 

And  I  remember  that,  by  a  singular  conincidence, 
the  same  bay  that  now  stretched  before  me  was  the 
subject  of  the  poem  which  I  had  dedicated  to  Fromen- 
tin. 

And  I  recalled  with  keen  emotion  the  words  of  the 
delightful  letter  of  thanks  he  had  written  me,  and 
which  I  preserve  among  my  most  precious  autographs. 


C. 

I  WENT  to  the  fields  to  look  for  subjects  and  effects, 
and  to  plan  new  pictures,  taking  with  me  a  wild  little 
country-girl,  who  carried  my  box,  and  from  time  to 
time  posed  for  me. 

She  was  a  dark,  slender  child,  full  of  spirits,  and 
agile  as  a  goat,  and  she  would  run  about,  her  flying 
locks  bronzed  by  the  sun,  fascinating  by  the  playfulness 
of  her  every  movement. 

She  suggested  to  me  a  little  poem  which  was  the 
germ  of  Jeanne.  It  is  in  the  "  Chant  de  1'Enfance," 
and  begins  as  follows  : 

"  Bientot  Jeanne  courut,  pieds  nus,  par  les  chiens," 
and  ending  with  this : 

"  Le  logis  s'e"clairait  d'une  lueur  d'aurore  ..." 

When  I  had  written  these  verses,  I  had  become  so 
interested  in  my  little  girl,  that  I  conceived  the  idea  of 
making  her  the  heroine  of  a  long  poem.  Another  of 
my  models  furnished  me  with  the  subject  and  the  dd- 
nofiment  of  the  plot, 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 


333 


This  latter  was  a  foundling  who  had  been  brought 
up  at  Courrieres,  but  had  been  claimed  by  her  mother, 
who  was  now  in  comfortable  circumstances.  She  had 
refused  to  go  back  to  her,  however,  preferring  to  remain 
with  her  adoptive  parents,  and  to  marry  the  peasant 
whom  she  loved. 

As  for  the  various  scenes  and  episodes,  with  the 
exception  of  a  few  passages  referring  to  the  origin  of 
Jeanne,  I  drew  them  from  my  imagination. 

I  have  been  asked  why  I  made  her  an  Indian.  Why, 
because  I  wished  to  open  up  a  new  path  toward  the 
ideal,  which  has  always  haunted  my  imagination. 

I  wished,  too,  to  make  Jeanne  not  only  the  peasant 
of  Artois,  but  the  primitive  woman,  with  all  her  unculti- 
vated and  natural  instincts,  in  contrast  with  Angele,  the 
tender  and  mystic  daughter  of  our  Christian  soil. 

Was  I  wrong  in  not  allowing  myself  to  be  hampered 
by  the  narrow  limits  of  a  province  ? 

Never  having  been  in  India,  I  consulted  authentic 
documents  bearing  on  the  subject. 

Besides,  it  is  not  my  intention  to  defend  the  errors  I 
may  have  committed. 

What  exquisite  pleasure  has  the  writing  of  this  poem 
afforded  me  ! 

What  can  there  be  more  delightful  than  to  create  a 
little  world  and  shut  one's  self  up  in  it  ?  During  four  years 
I  was  absorbed  in  its  life,  mingling  more  with  its  imagi- 
nary characters  than  with  the  real  world  surrounding 
me. 

The  art  of  the  poet  is  more  intoxicating  than  that  of 
the  painter;  for  the  succession  of  the  tableaux  and  the 
thoughts,  the  rapidity  of  the  images,  the  intensity  of  the 
sentiments,  and  the  immateriality  of  the  process,  tend  to 
maintain  in  the  brain  and  the  nervous  system  a  perpetual 
and  pleasing  excitement. 


334  THE   LIFE   °F  AN  ARTIST. 

Painting,  on  the  contrary,  employs  itself  in  the  in- 
terpretation of  a  simple  idea  by  palpable  means. 

But  how  many  resemblances  there  are  between  the 
two  arts  !  In  both  there  are  the  same  general  laws  of 
composition,  of  comparison,  of  rejection,  of  contrast,  and 
of  harmony. 

Often,  at  the  movement  of  the  rhythm,  I  fancied  my 
pen  was  designing  forms,  while  at  the  same  time  the 
sonorousness  of  the  sounds  produced  upon  me  almost 
the  effect  of  color. 

But,  precisely  because  it  is  intoxicating,  the  labor  of 
the  poet  is  excessively  fatiguing.  I  contracted  in  this 
way  a  nervous  affection  of  the  brain,  accompanied 
by  vertigoes  which  resembled  trances  and  lasted  for 
hours. 

Since  then  the  physicians  have  absolutely  prohibited 
me  from  writing  poetry.  It  is  in  order  to  take  my  re- 
venge for  this  that  I  write  these  memoirs. 

Prose,  that  one  can  take  up  and  lay  down  at  will, 
permits  periods  of  repose  to  the  mind  which  the  linking 
together  of  the  verses  and  the  continual  obsession  of  the 
rhymes  render  restless. 

Jeanne  was  published  by  Charpentier  in  1880,  and 
was  afterward  included  in  the  **  Petit  Bibliotheque 
Lite"raire  "  of  Alphonse  Lemerre. 


CI. 

IN  the  same  year  (1880)  I  received  a  fresh  blow  in 
my  tenderest  affections. 

Madame  Breton  and  I  were  taking  some  refreshment 
in  the  Cafe*  de  1'Univers.  It  was  at  the  beginning  of 
May,  and  we  were  returning  from  the  Exposition. 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST. 


335 


We  were  speaking  of  the  good  De  Winne,  whom  we 
were  accusing  of  having  forgotten  us. 

We  had  had  no  news  of  him  lately.  He  had  not,  as 
was  his  custom,  been  present  at  the  opening  of  the 
Salon.  He  had  not  even  acknowledged  the  receipt  of 
my  poem  which  I  had  sent  him. 

Just  as  we  were  attributing  De  Winne's  silence  to 
his  incorrigible  laziness,  we  perceived  our  cousin  Paul 
de  Vigne,  the  sculptor,  driving  rapidly  in  an  open  car- 
riage across  the  Place  du  Palais  Royal. 

We  called  to  him  gayly,  and  we  were  surprised  to 
see  him  approach  us  with  strong  marks  of  agitation  on 
his  countenance. 

He  held  out  to  me  a  telegram  which  he  had  just  re- 
ceived, containing  the  words  :  "  De  Winne,  pneumonia  ; 
desperate  condition.  Come." 

I  need  not  describe  our  consternation.  We  returned 
home.  A  similar  dispatch  awaited  us  there,  which  was 
soon  followed  by  another  containing  these  words  :  "  All 
is  ended." 

You  know  what  a  fraternal  friendship  united  me  to 
De  Winne.  I  set  out  immediately  for  Brussels,  a  prey 
to  the  most  poignant  anguish. 

We  have  seen  the  trials  he  had  experienced  at  the 
outset  of  his  career.  We  have  seen  him  again  in  the 
Boulevard  du  Mont  Parnasse.  We  last  saw  him  at  the 
moment  when  I  threw  myself  into  his  arms,  asking  his 
pardon  for  having,  in  an  access  of  mental  suffering,  sus- 
pected his  loyal  friendship.  I  could  say  much  more  re- 
garding this  artist,  who  was  a  great  portrait-painter. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  he  painted  a  biblical  sub- 
ject, the  "  Parting  of  Ruth  and  Naomi,"  while  I  was 
painting  my  first  picture  of  "  The  Harvesters." 

With  what  emotion  we  regarded  those  canvases 
which  cheated  our  hopes — pallid  and  insignificant  paint- 


336  THE   LIFE  OF   AN   ARTIST. 

ings  which  the  public  did  not  even  glance  at  when  they 
were  exhibited  in  the  Salon  of  1853  ! 

But  Lie"vin  de  Winne  shortly  after  painted  a  picture 
which  showed  what  he  was  capable  of,  "  The  Ecstatic 
Vision  of  Saint  Francis  of  Assisi,"  in  which  the  young 
artist  suddenly  developed  remarkable  power,  and  which 
created  a  sensation  at  the  Exhibition  at  Brussels,  where 
it  was  exhibited  in  1854. 

On  his  return  to  Ghent  at  this  epoch,  he  painted  a 
"  Christ  on  the  Mount  of  Olives,"  but,  his  hesitations  re- 
turning to  him,  he  did  not  succeed  in  giving  this  picture 
the  virile  qualities  of  the  "  Saint  Francis."  Then  he 
went  to  Holland,  whence  he  returned  dazzled  with  the 
magic  light  of  Rembrandt.  He  painted,  then,  several 
brilliant  portraits  of  a  powerful  composition,  but  marred 
by  too  yellow  a  tinge. 

The  portrait  of  Felix  de  Vigne  which  he  made 
shortly  afterward  bears  a  trace  of  this  defect,  but  it  is  a 
masterly  work,  full  of  life,  strongly  modeled,  the  grounds 
broad,  and  faultless  in  drawing. 

In  1858  our  artist,  whose  ambition  it  was  to  be  a 
great  historical  painter,  executed  an  important  picture, 
"The  Holy  Women  at  the  Tomb  of  Christ."  He 
showed  at  this  time  the  influence  of  the  German  paint- 
ers, and  especially  of  Schnor. 

This  was  contrary  to  his  own  nature,  which  was  all 
sincerity  and  simplicity.  Therefore  "  The  Holy  Wom- 
en "  is  only  a  passably  good  picture,  notwithstanding 
the  persistent  labor  expended  on  it.  This  did  not  pre- 
vent him  from  planning  a  large  picture,  and  he  fixed 
upon  the  subject,  "  An  Orgy  of  the  Roman  Caesar  while 
Some  Slaves  Are  Being  Put  to  Death." 

He  spoke  of  this  picture  with  a  great  deal  of  enthu- 
siasm. 

One  day  he  procured  more  than  twenty  volumes  on 


\ 


THE  LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST.  337 

the  subject  of  Roman  history,  shut  himself  up  all  the 
evening  in  his  study,  and  after  all  he  read  none  of  them. 

It  will  be  seen  by  these  prepossessions  that  our  artist 
would  have  become  a  historical  painter  had  it  not  been 
that  his  education  was  neglected,  owing  to  the  misfor- 
tunes of  his  early  youth.  His  imagination,  powerful  in 
reality,  was  always  impeded  by  this  want.  He  felt  this, 
and  suffered  from  it,  but,  at  the  age  when  he  might  still 
have  instructed  himself,  he  had  not  the  necessary  time 
to  do  so,  for  he  was  obliged  to  give  all  his  attention  to 
earning  a  livelihood. 

A  sprightly  gayety  had  succeeded  to  LieVin's  former 
gloom.  This  gayety  had  become  the  indispensable  ali- 
ment of  his  ardent  soul. 

He  had  suffered  so  much  that  he  had  taken  a  hatred 
to  suffering,  whose  specter  terrified  him.  His  heart  was 
profoundly  compassionate,  but,  while  he  would  give  gen- 
erously and  promptly  to  succor  distress,  he  shrank  from 
the  sight  of  misery. 

This  was  the  only  thing  in  his  character  that  resem- 
bled selfishness. 

He  was  at  once  the  most  neglectful  and  the  most 
faithful  of  friends.  He  displayed  in  his  friendship  the 
most  delicate  thoughtfulness  and  the  most  inexplicable 
forgetfulness — transitory  periods  of  oblivion  in  which 
his  heart  slept,  suddenly  to  awaken  full  of  affectionate 
enthusiasm. 

On  such  occasions  he  would  smother  one  in  his  em- 
braces, and  respond  to  the  reproaches  addressed  to  him 
by  such  outrageous  and  apparently  well  -  grounded 
charges  that  one  ended  by  believing  them  one's  self, 
hardly  knowing  whether  to  laugh  or  to  cry. 

But,  if  he  sometimes  succeeded  in  escaping  pain,  he 
was  always  powerless  to  repress  the  violent  irritation 
which  every  species  of  injustice  caused  him. 

22 


338 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST. 


As  an  artist  he  was  never  envious ;  he  delighted  in 
speaking  well  of  his  fellow-artists,  but  he  was  always 
pitiless  toward  triumphant  mediocrity. 

Whenever  his  friends  asked  his  opinion  of  their 
work,  he  gave  it  with  a  frankness  that  sometimes  bor- 
dered on  brutality. 

And  what  valuable  counsels  he  gave  !  Never  again 
will  he  give  me  those  wise  counsels ;  and  my  pictures,  at 
the  critical  moment,  will  wait  for  him  in  vain  in  the  vil- 
lage which-  he  so  often  lighted  by  his  presence — the  vil- 
lage of  Courrieres,  where  every  one  was  so  glad  to  see 
him,  and  where  he  loved,  of  a  Sunday,  to  join  in  the 
amusements  of  his  friends  the  peasants,  whose  hands, 
hardened  b)t  toil,  he  would  press  so  cordially  between 
his  own. 

The  poor,  too,  have  mourned  him. 

Since  the  year  1861  De  Winne  had  lived  in  Brussels  ; 
he  had  bought  there  the  comfortable  house  built  by  Otto 
de  Thoren,  the  Austrian  painter,  who  died  recently  in 
Paris,  where  several  fine  paintings  had  brought  him  into 
note. 

De  Winne  had  painted  the  portraits  of  the  Count 
and  Countess  of  Flanders,  and  of  King  Leopold  I,  and 
his  reputation  was  firmly  established. 

As  a  preparation  for  the  portrait  of  the  king,  he  had 
first  painted  a  camaieu,  which  is  now  in  the  museum  in 
Ghent. 

This  work  is  a  masterpiece  ;  all  the  sagacity  of  the 
diplomat,  all  the  intellectual  power  of  the  scholar,  all 
the  majesty  of  the  king,  are  expressed  in  this  portrait 
which  I  have  seen  a  hundred  times  with  ever  new  ad- 
miration. 

The  modeling  is  of  extraordinary  delicacy  and  force. 
What  incisive  and  flexible  touches  !  The  traits  of  the 
illustrious  old  man  have  been,  so  to  speak,  caught  on  the 


THE  LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 


339 


wing  and  fixed  on  the  canvas  forever.  The  king  is  there, 
forever  living.  Holbein  might  have  been  proud  to  paint 
this  camai'eu. 

Parisians  will  remember  the  famous  portrait  of  Mr. 
Sandfort,  an  American,  who  is  represented  wearing  an 
eyeglass  and  holding  his  hat  in  his  hand.  It  was  per- 
haps the  finest  portrait  of  Ihe  International  Exposition 
of  1878.  Other  portrait-painters  have  displayed  more 
pomp,  more  technical  skill,  but  not  one  has  depicted 
by  more  legitimate  means  or  with  profounder  insight 
the  masterpiece  of  creation — the  human  being. 

What  first  strikes  one  in  all  De  Whine's  portraits  are 
an  indescribable  air  of  austerity  and  familiarity  blended, 
a  sweet  and  gentle  severity,  unity,  variety,  and  that  ease, 
that  tranquil  power  which  results  from  the  harmony  of 
the  parts  and  which  is  the  highest  quality  of  the  true 
artist.  Here  are  no  miracles  of  composition  ;  here  is 
no  apparent  effort.  The  characters  regard  you  calmly 
from  the  depths  of  their  souls,  and  reflect  what  is  in  their 
souls. 

Such  was  my  opinion,  such  was  the  opinion  of  the 
jury  of  the  International  Exposition  of  1878,  who  unani- 
mously voted  him  a  first  medal,  after  eleven  votes  had 
been  given  him  for  the  medal  of  honor,  which  is  only 
accorded  to  important  compositions. 

His  later  portraits,  some  of  which  were  interrupted 
by  death,  show  that  De  Winne  was  capable  of  even  still 
better  things. 

I  have  tried  to  characterize  in  a  few  words  his  other 
pictures,  but  what  shall  I  say  of  those  where  art  itself 
disappears,  or  where  only  the  thought  of  the  artist  guides 
his  hand,  dominating  matter  so  completely  that  it  seems 
to  shine  with  its  own  brightness,  to  show  two  things 
only,  the  individuality  of  the  subject  and  that  of  the 
painter. 


340 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 


When  I  arrived  in  Brussels  for  the  funeral  I  had  not 
seen  any  of  these  latter  works,  with  the  exception  of  an 
unfinished  portrait  of  my  brother  Louis,  one  of  the  most 
extraordinarily  life-like  portraits  I  have  ever  seen. 

On  this  day,  when  the  creative  hand  was  still  in 
death,  and  when,  shaken  by  sobs,  I  hurried  up  the  stairs 
which  I  had  so  often  ascended,  my  heart  beating  joy- 
fully, when,  entering  the  studio  filled  still  with  the  pres- 
ence of  the  artist,  I  found  myself  face  to  face  with  those 
superb  and  unpretending  pictures,  so  spiritual,  yet  so 
life-like,  my  grief  was  changed  to  pious  ecstasy  and — 
touching  mystery  ! — it  seemed  to  me  as  if  LieVin's  spirit, 
mingling  with  the  spirits  of  those  he  had  so  faithfully 
portrayed,  was  regarding  me.  I  felt  it  still  present,  still 
in  communication  with  mine,  and  in  this  feeling — con- 
soling thought ! — I  found  something  like  an  assurance  of 
his  immortality. 


CII. 

HERE  my  memoirs  end. 

I  do  not  wish  to  close  this  book,  however,  without 
casting  a  glance  at  the  Exhibition  of  the  paintings  of 
the  present  century  in  the  Champs  de  Mars,  which  has 
just  closed. 

This  Exhibition  has  caused  hardly  any  modification 
in  my  opinions  regarding  the  works  I  have  just  men- 
tioned, and  it  has  still  further  confirmed  the  authority 
of  the  true  masters  for  whom  I  had  for  a  long  time  past 
entertained  the  sincerest  admiration. 

But  how  delightful  to  be  able  to  behold  in  a  few 
hours  all  the  masterpieces  seen  at  different  times,  and 
of  which  each  successive  impression  was  naturally  weak- 
ened by  the  one  following  it ! 


THE  LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST.  341 

How  instructive  for  the  public,  to  be  able  to  com- 
pare these  masterpieces  with  one  another !  How  quick- 
ly this  comparison  brings  back  to  the  right  path  the 
judgment  too  often  led  astray  by  the  exaggerated  en- 
thusiasms of  private  exhibitions,  and  still  more  by  the 
incense  of  the  coteries  ! 

Thus  it  is  that  from  some  elevated  plateau  one  sur- 
veys at  a  glance  the  road  traversed  during  the  heat  of 
the  day. 

Such  a  view  did  I  obtain,  not  long  since,  from  the 
pass  of  the  Aspin,  in  the  Pyrenees.  And  scarcely  had 
I  taken  in  the  marvelous  scene  of  the  valley  of  the 
Arrau  than  the  clouds  that  had  been  slowly  gathering 
at  my  feet  spread  their  thick  veil  over  the  landscape 
and  burst  in  a  water-spout,  plunging  everything  into 
obscurity. 

But  soon  the  somber  curtain  opened  again,  and  the 
valley  was  disclosed  to  view,  more  glorious  than  before. 

Thus  will  time  dispel  the  moral  cloud  of  which  the 
International  Exposition  was  but  the  apparent  cause. 

French  art  traverses  the  world  like  those  broad  rivers 
that  flow  on,  free  and  peaceful,  but  irresistible  in  their 
course.  Let  us  not  separate  this  river  into  little  streams, 
which  the  storm  might  indeed  swell  and  send  noisily  on 
their  way  for  a  time,  but  which  in  ordinary  weather 
would  flow  only  through  barren  soil. 

Let  there  be  no  unprofitable  dissensions,  and  let  the 
light  which  the  great  Exposition  of  1889  has  diffused, 
by  bringing  together  so  many  masterpieces,  long  con- 
tinue to  shine. 

But,  rich  as  this  Exposition  was,  it  would  have  been 
still  more  so  if  all  the  artists  admitted  there  had  been 
represented,  like  a  few  of  the  favored  ones,  by  their  best 
works. 

For  example,  if  we  were  so  fortunate  as  to  see  there 


342  THE  LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST. 

the  "  Sacre  "  of  David,  and  the  "  Eighteenth  Brumaire  " 
of  Bouchet,  why,  I  ask,  was  a  certain  Jupiter  with  I 
know  not  what  nymph  (nor  do  I  desire  to  know),  ad- 
mitted— one  of  the  worst  works  of  our  great  artist  In- 
gres, who,  as  we  are  aware,  at  times  committed  strange 
mistakes  ? 

The  great  landscape-painter,  Rousseau,  was  repre- 
sented there  by  several  canvases  belonging  to  the  epoch 
when,  confining  himself  too  much  to  his  own  inspiration, 
the  puissant  recluse  had  ended,  alas !  by  producing 
trivialities  such  as  a  prisoner  in  his  cell  might  have 
amused  his  solitude  by  painting. 

The  two  or  three  little  panels  which  are  worthy  of 
him  do  not  supply  the  place  of  his  absent  masterpieces. 

Neither  do  the  paintings  of  Daubigny,  scattered  at 
random,  give  any  just  idea  of  the  merits  of  this  delight- 
ful artist. 

I  do  not  blame  the  committee  of  organization  for 
this.  Doubtless  they  had  insurmountable  difficulties  to 
contend  against. 

Neither  did  I  see  there  the  best  works  of  Delacroix, 
nor  those  of  Gustave  Moreau. 

And  instead  of  the  "  Lady  Macbeth  "  of  M tiller,  why 
was  not  his  *'  Appeal  of  the  Victims  of  the  Reign  of 
Terror  "  exhibited — a  picture  which  was  so  greatly  ad- 
mired at  Versailles,  where  it  has  since  been  placed  ? 

But  to  many  of  those  who  knew  Charlet  only  from 
his  popular  lithographs,  of  which,  it  must  be  confessed, 
many  are  commonplace,  his  "  Retreat  from  Moscow " 
was  a  revelation.  They  had  not  expected  so  powerful 
and  dramatic  a  scene  from  him.  The  "  Leonardo  da 
Vinci "  of  Jean  Gigoux  and  his  "  Portrait  of  a  Gen- 
eral," life-like  as  a  Reynolds,  also  awakened  a  great 
deal  of  interest. 

Let  us  salute,  in  passing,   one  of  our  most  valiant 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST.  343 

veterans,  Jean  Gigoux,  who,  at  eighty-four,  continues  to 
paint,  without  relaxation,  works  full  of  tender  and  natu- 
ral feeling,  and  heads  of  young  girls,  full  of  a  touching 
simplicity. 

Our  dear  Baudry  was  badly  represented  by  some 
portraits,  the  greater  number  in  his  inferior  manner — 
his  best  painting,  "  The  Pearl  and  the  Wave,"  having 
been  relegated  to  a  distance  from  his  panel,  which,  like 
that  of  Bastien  Lepage,  was  hung  on  a  lateral  wall  of 
the  chapel  of  Manet. 

For  some  years  past  the  impressionists  have  occupied 
public  attention,  and  it  is  but  natural  that  they  should 
have  been  put  in  a  conspicuous  place. 

Their  admirers  on  the  committee,  however,  restrained 
no  doubt  by  the  sense  of  responsibility  entailed  by 
their  delicate  functions,  admitted  scarcely  any  but  their 
earlier  pictures,  those  whose  reputation  is  established, 
and  I  must  confess  that  they  did  not  seem  to  me  very 
striking  ;  some  of  them,  indeed,  I  thought  very  inferior. 

But  if,  on  the  one  hand,  though  doubtless  uninten- 
tionally, the  importance  of  Manet,  the  recognized  leader 
of  the  impressionist  school,  was  exaggerated,  perhaps,  on 
the  other,  those  who  call  themselves  his  followers  were 
hardly  done  justice  to. 

Remembering  former  ridicule  they  feared  to  expose 
themselves  to  this  again.  But  the  public  does  not  now 
laugh  at  those  things  ;  and,  besides,  ridicule  no  longer 
kills  in  Paris. 

They  had  wished  to  throw  wide  the  doors  to  innova- 
tors, and  they  hesitated  at  the  names  of  those  who  might 
have  made  good  their  claim  to  that  title  ;  or  rather,  as  I 
said  before,  they  have  admitted  only  their  least  charac- 
teristic works. 

I  can  not  believe  that  posterity  will  recognize  a  leader 
in  Manet,  who  is  rather  a  mediocre  pupil  of  Goya  and 


244  THE  LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

Velasquez,  and,  later,  of  the  Japanese  school,  while  I 
remember  to  have  seen  some  interesting  and  striking 
efforts  in  the  midst  of  those  fantastically  iridescent  land- 
scapes that  one  seems  to  look  at  through  the  stopper  of 
a  decanter,  or  those  pictures  that  seem  as  if  made  by 
machinery  for  birthday  presents  for  grandpapas — those 
cows  with  wonderful  horns,  those  boatmen  overlaid 
with  saffron,  paddling  in  water  the  color  of  washing-blue 
(I  do  not  here  refer  to  Manet) ;  in  the  midst  of  this  St.- 
Vitus'-dance  of  Nature  in  the  paroxysm  of  an  hysterical 
attack,  I  remember,  as  I  said,  to  have  seen  in  some  private 
exhibitions  some  works  of  this  school  whose  strange- 
ness attracted  me — white  lakes  quivering  in  opalescent 
lights,  where  real  breezes  blow  from  the  silvery  sky 
and  bend  the  yellow  reeds  —  charming  pictures,  in 
which  familiar  graces  are  presented  under  a  fresh 
aspect. 

Since  the  honor  was  accorded  to  the  impressionists 
of  admitting  them  to  the  Blue  Dome,  why  not  have 
chosen,  at  least,  some  of  their  poetic  essays  ? 

At  the  present  day  more  words  are  invented  than 
things — in  art,  at  least. 

Are  not  all  who  seek  the  Ideal  in  the  Real,  impres- 
sionists ? 

But  cliques  have  always  sought  to  monopolize  the 
exclusive  use  of  the  best  things — including  the  finest  of 
the  red  carnations. 

By  impressionism  may  perhaps  be  meant  the  confused 
impressions  of  neurosis,  for  impression  in  its  true  sense 
is  eternal ! 

It  is  the  whole  of  art ! 

At  other  epochs  it  was  called  inspiration,  the  divine 
fire.  By  Topper  it  was  called  a  sixth  sense,  and  by 
Boileau  himself  a  hidden  power. 

There  is  a  saying  so  true  as  to  be  a  commonplace  : 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN  ARTIST.  345 

"  There  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun  !  "  Not  even 
Manet. 

It  has  been  said  that  this  artist  delivered  the  French 
school  of  painting  from  the  sauces  of  the  Bolognese 
kitchen  ;  it  must  be  in  jest  that  this  stereotyped  phrase 
is  repeated  in  turn  to  every  novice,  for  the  French 
school  of  art  has  long  ceased  to  be  influenced  by  that 
of  Bologna. 

He  made  war  upon  shadow,  it  has  also  been  said. 
Another  jest !  Was  Prudhomme  right,  then,  when  he 
said  that  shadow  is  one  of  the  imperfections  of  painting  ? 

Answer,  O  Rembrandt,  magician  who  shinest  in  the 
darkness ! 

But  Prudhomme,  without  suspecting  it,  meant  black 
and  false  shadows ;  and  the  friend  to  whom  he  spoke 
would  not  have  complained  of  the  cigar  he  had  blamed 
the  painter  for  having  placed  under  the  nose  in  his  por- 
trait if  the  shadow  had  been  true,  for  he  would  not  then 
have  seen  this  shadow  any  more  than  he  sees  the  shad- 
ows in  Nature. 

And,  for  my  part,  I  would  say  to  many  of  those 
young  painters  who,  through  a  horror  of  false  shadows, 
fall  into  a  dull  and  leaden  coloring  worse  than  the  Bo- 
lognese sauce  :  Paint  shadows  that  the  bourgeois  will 
not  see. 

I  would  give  the  same  advice  with  respect  to  those 
famous  violet  tints  in  the  shadows  which  Prudhomme 
has  ridiculed,  and  with  reason,  in  the  work  of  certain 
impressionist  painters.  If  those  violet  tints  seem  to  him 
exaggerated,  it  is  not  because  they  are  violet ;  they 
might  without  detriment  be  still  more  so.  It  is  because 
they  are  out  of  harmony,  because  they  are  not  in  accord 
with  the  contiguous  tones.  If  harmony  of  coloring  were 
preserved,  an  arm,  a  leg,  a  head,  lighted  from  the  blue 
heavens,  would  seem  to  Prudhomme  the  natural  color 


246  THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

of  flesh,  although  a  logical  brush  would  mingle  with  its 
coloring  a  tinge  of  true  violet. 

What  I  mean  by  atmosphere  is  the  play  of  ambient 
reflections  under  the  broad  sky  ;  not  that  white,  even 
light  in  which  the  values  are  altogether  absent. 

Harmony,  that  magician,  can  make  use  of  all  tones, 
the  most  intense  and  the  most  discordant,  by  bringing 
them  into  accord  and  transfiguring  them  in  its  enchant- 
ing orchestration. 

How  many  pretended  impressionists  have  introduced 
only  the  discords  of  reflections  ! 

But  let  us  come  to  the  painters  of  whom  we  have'  yet 
to  speak. 

Bastien  Lepage  will  leave  a  lasting  fame.  This 
young  artist,  cut  down  in  the  flush  of  his  promise,  was  a 
true  investigator. 

How  conscientious  was  his  work  ! 

He  made  his  ddbut  with  a  masterpiece,  the  "  Portrait 
of  my  Grandfather."  Touching  familiarity,  simple  and 
accurate  drawing,  admirable  truth  of  tone,  strong  and 
fine  harmony,  just  relation  of  the  figure  to  the  back- 
ground— all  are  there. 

But  why  did  he  in  his  pictures  attach  equal  impor- 
tance to  all  the  details,  even  the  insignificant  ones, 
without  sufficiently  considering  their  relative  values  ? 
But  if  what  we  call  the  envelope  is  wanting,  how  many 
true  touches  are  there  ! 

And  how  can  we  sufficiently  admire  the  marvelous 
little  panel  in  which  he  has  immortalized  his  brother 
Emile  ! 

France,  in  Bastien  Lepage,  has  lost  her  Holbein. 

If  Rousseau,  Delacroix,  Baudry,  and  Daubigny  were 
not  represented  by  their  best  works,  at  least  we  may  say 
that  the  finest  pictures  of  Troyon  sustain  well  the  fame 
of  this  animal  painter. 


THE   LIFE  OF  AN   ARTIST.  347 

The  pictures  of  Millet,  too,  have  been  chosen  from 
among  the  masterpieces  which,  realizing  more  than  the 
superficial  aspects  of  things,  evoke  dreams  of  simple 
rural  life. 

There  were  in  the  Exhibition  "  The  Gleaners,"  "  The 
Man  with  the  Hoe,"  "  The  Sheep-fold,"  and  a  less  well- 
known  landscape,  of  an  impressive  charm,  where  rise 
hills  covered  with  austere  verdure,  and  impenetrable 
hedges  border  the  meadows  along  the  roadside,  while 
the  warm  rays  of  a  clouded  sun  shine  through  the  misty 
atmosphere — a  picture  rendered  still  more  moving  by  a 
sort  of  conscious  unskilfulness  full  of  childlike  candor. 

There  were  those  humble  farm-houses  which  exhaled 
a  thousand  rural  effluences  in  the  peaceful  surroundings 
of  familiar  lowings  and  sunburnt  plains  tawny  with  dust 
and  the  emanations  of  the  wheat. 

And  the  Corots,  the  incomparable  Corots,  so  resplen- 
dent with  ideal  beauty  that  they  transport  one  to  heaven, 
so  true  to  Nature  that  in  seeing  them  one  fancies  one  is 
looking  through  an  open  window  upon  Nature's  self ! 

These  pictures  awakened  universal  admiration. 

Why  were  you  not  there  to  witness  it,  good  Father 
Corot,  as  you  were  called  by  your  contemporaries? 
And,  indeed,  who  could  be  more  paternal  than  this  great 
painter,  who  never  married,  and  who  at  first  sight  looked 
like  a  worthy  farmer,  with  his  wide  trousers  and  his  ample 
waistcoat  buttoned  to  the  chin  ?  What  good-nature,  but 
what  brilliancy  also,  and  what  intelligence  in  his  gentle 
glance  !  What  a  clear,  serene  forehead  !  What  love, 
what  charity  did  that  mobile  mouth  express,  the  lips 
pressed  together  at  times  and  the  corners  turning  down 
slightly!  For  his  was  not  the  commonplace  amiability 
which  keeps  the  mouths  of  many  superficially  good- 
natured  people  stretched  in  a  continual  smile. 

And  this  man,  so  modest  in  his  tastes,  who  addressed 


348  THE   LIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

grateful  apostrophes  to  his  dear  little  pipe,  this  frugal 
epicurean  who  went  into  raptures  over  the  savoriness  of 
a  simple pot-au-feu  or  a  fat  pullet,  this  man  so  ingenuous 
and  so  little  vain,  had  a  just  appreciation  of  his  high 
value  as  an  artist. 

He  would  have  witnessed  tranquilly  and  without 
astonishment  the  triumph  he  obtained  at  the  Exposition 
of  1889.  This  does  not  mean  that  he  had  ever  expected 
it ;  no,  he  had  been  too  long  neglected  by  the  public  to 
have  any  faith  in  its  justice.  And  yet  his  life  was  a 
continual  overflow  of  pure  joy,  nourished  by  the  spec- 
tacle of  Nature,  which  he  adored. 

I  seem  to  see  him  now  in  the  studio  of  the  Rue 
Paradis-Poissonniere,  when  he  showed  me  one  of  his  new 
pictures,  saying :  "  Look  at  that  sky,  you  little  villain  ; 
how  it  shines  of  itself !  You  can  see  nothing  else  for 
it !  "  And  afterward,  at  Douai,  at  the  house  of  our  fel- 
low-artist Robaut,  and  at  Arras,  at  the  house  of  his 
faithful  friend  Dutilleux,  who  had  also  a  keen  and  deli- 
cate feeling  for  Nature.  And  that  day  when,  making  a 
study  of  the  fortifications  of  the  city,  I  dared  to  remark 
to  the  great  painter  that  one  of  his  values  seemed  to  me 
a  little  pale,  and  he  took  his  black  hat,  and  comparing 
it  with  the  corresponding  value  in  the  subject  of  his 
sketch,  said  to  me,  "  See  if  it  is  too  pale." 

And  as  I  objected  that  he  was  not  going  to  paint  his 
hat  in  the  study,  he  answered,  "  He  is  right,  the  little 
fellow !  " 

Such  was  the  candor  of  this  excellent  man  and  great 
artist. 

He  did  me  the  distinguished  honor  of  coming  to  see 
me  at  Courrieres  in  1860.  I  went  to  meet  him.  We 
walked  through  the  woods  and  the  plains,  indulging  all 
the  way  in  expressions  of  childlike  delight. 

The  merest  nothing,  a  bud  freshly  opened,  the  tender 


THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST.  349 

shoot  of  a  plant,  was  sufficient  to  launch  him  into  po- 
etry, and  what  poetry  ! 

Our  circumstances  were  still  somewhat  straitened. 
There  was  no  luxury  at  the  table  of  my  uncle,  whose 
guest  he  was.  But  we  knew  his  fondness  for  a  tender 
and  succulent  leg  of  mutton,  cooked  to  a  turn,  a  good 
juicy  pullet,  and  strong  coffee  ;  all  these  we  gave  him,  and, 
besides,  a  bottle  of  old  Romance  Conti  from  the  cellar. 

During  the  whole  time  of  his  stay  he  enchanted  us 
with  his  gayety  and  good-humor. 

In  the  midst  of  our  gayety,  however,  a  thoughtful 
look  suddenly  crossed  his  face.  He  had  observed  in 
my  wife,  who  for  nine  months  had  nursed  our  Virginie, 
unmistakable  signs  of  exhaustion,  and  he  urged  the 
necessity  of  weaning  the  child  without  delay,  adding 
that  it  was  high  time  to  do  so;  then,  turning  to  me 
with  a  severe  expression,  which  I  had  never  before  seen 
on  his  face,  he  said,  "  Can  you  not  see  this,  too  ? " 
None  of  us  had  observed  it. 

My  wife  followed  his  advice,  and  the  proof  of  the 
necessity  for  doing  so  was  that  she  was  seriously  ill  for 
several  months  afterward,  and  I  feared  for  a  time  that  I 
was  going  to  lose  her. 

Heaven  only  knows  how  much  I  owe  our  great 
painter  for  his  friendly  advice  ! 

Corot,  who  was  the  first  to  depict  poetically  atmos- 
phere and  the  infinite  depths  of  the  sky,  is  perhaps  the 
most  original  genius  of  our  modern  school  of  art,  al- 
though he  has  drawn  his  inspiration  from  Claude  Lor- 
raine, and  still  more  from  Poussin. 

He  is  the  purest,  the  most  tender,  the  most  fascinat- 
ing, the  most  spiritual,  the  most  animated,  and,  although 
his  unity  gives  an  appearance  of  sameness  to  his  works, 
in  reality  one  of  the  most  versatile  of  our  contemporary 
painters. 


350  THE   LIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST. 

Each  of  his  landscapes  is  a  hymn  of  serene  purity, 
where  everything,  however,  lives,  rejoices,  loves,  and 
palpitates. 

He  has  expressed  in  natural  surroundings,  earthly 
realities  and  the  ideals  of  Olympus  and  of  Eden,  pre- 
serving naturalness  and  simplicity,  even  in  the  subtle 
refinements  of  taste.  Genius  made  of  dawn  and  spring- 
time !  Eternal  sunshine,  that  age  has  not  been  able  to 
chill !  A  child  in  the  freshness  of  his  enthusiasm ;  a 
thinker  in  the  sureness  of  his  profound  knowledge  ! 

We  say  the  divine  Mozart ;  we  may  also  say  the  di- 
vine Corot,  for  he  is  the  Mozart  of  painting  !  And  with 
all  this  he  has  the  good-natured  simplicity  of  a  country 
squire. 

Paris  may  well  be  proud  of  having  given  him  birth. 

O  France,  who  hast  produced  such  artists,  glory  to 
thee ! 

Glory  to  thee,  also,  for  having  thrown  open  the  vast- 
est arena  to  the  noblest  combats  of  human  genius  ! 

0  my  country  !      Thou,  for  whom  we   have  wept, 
believing  thee  lost,  when  thou  wast  bleeding  from  every 
pore,  behold,  thou  hast  just  given  the  most  astonishing 
proof  of  life  in  creating  this  immense  beehive,  where, 
from  all  the  confines  of  the  earth,  have  come  countless 
swarms  of  industrious  bees,  whose  pacific  humming  has 
drowned  the  vain  noise  of  warlike  clarions  ! 

1  have  lived  to  see  this  miracle,  and  I  thank  Heaven 
for  it.     France  will  not  stop  here,  and  my  daughter  will 
one  day  say  to  her  dear  husband,  the  hearts  of  both  filled 
with  pious  emotion  at  the  sight  of  some  new  wonder 
sprung  from  the  genius  of  our  beloved  country,  what  I 
have  so  often  repeated,  "  Would  that  our  fathers  could 
see  this  ! " 

THE    END. 


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